Again the sweet voice sounds, this time with more power in its tones.
“Who is he? Can no one tell us?” asked the archbishop, breaking off in a discussion of the value of certain jewels which he had purchased from a Jew.
“A wandering estudiante who is travelling through the north,” answered the chamberlain, advancing with doffed cap and bended knee; for the Regents exacted the same respect in addressing them as the kings of Castile; “recommended to me by a friend as skilled in his art.”
“That cannot be doubted,” said the archbishop. “Bring him round, that we may judge of his appearance.”
This command was promptly obeyed, and a youth stood forward on the edge of the dais, habited in a long dark mantle of coarse cloth, sandals on his bare feet, and a mass of thick fair hair combed down so straight under a pointed cap it was almost impossible to distinguish his features. Not that he appeared the least dismayed, but stood perfectly at his ease in front of the radiance of the scented lamps, his zither in his hand, minutely surveying the faces of those before him.
“Your looks proclaim you young,” said the archbishop, struck for a moment with a fancied resemblance to some one he had seen. “Where do you come from? By our Lady of Saragossa, you have a pleasant voice.”
“Grandeza,” answered the minstrel, “I am an orphan, of good birth, reduced to the greatest want. To-day, upon my word, I have not eaten a meal.”
“Poor boy! here you shall have your fill. How long have you been so reduced?”
“Since my father’s death, your Grace. He died when I was a child, and the wicked governors