“And of the Regents!” cried Mendoza, “our capable leaders! Don Enrique must be put aside. He is sick and unfit to reign. What say you, Caballeros? Methinks the race of Trastamare is played out.”
“Agreed! agreed!” came from all sides.
“And who can better replace him than the Regents?” cried the Conde de Lerma, who had good reason to tremble lest, when the young king came to reign, he should discover the villainies of which he had been guilty.
“And I! and I!” shouted Velasco and Peralta, tossing high their goblets.
Indeed, the whole company was in a state of violent excitement, to which not only the wine, but the patriotic ballads of the minstrel had much contributed.
“My lords! my lords!” cried the archbishop, rising from his seat, seriously alarmed at the imprudent vehemence of his partisans, “these are matters not to be lightly mentioned. Such words are treason if they get abroad. To-morrow is the fiesta of the young king. His Grace has invited us to a special tertulia in honour of the event. I drink to his health, and better capacity to fill the high place he inherits!”
A palpable sneer was in his voice as he added these words in a low tone.
“Yes, the fiesta of our king,” added the Marqués de Villena, amid a general chorus of mocking laughter. He was no more loyal than the prelate, but less hypocritical, and, like him, fully aware of the dangerous consequences, should any premature knowledge of a conspiracy get abroad. “I pray you, Grandezas, to disperse quietly. Whatever be in your minds, this is no place to discuss it.”
And so they parted, each one to his abode, attended by bands of armed followers with torches.
The singer was left alone, but he was met at the portal by a friend, attired like himself as an estudiante, and thus together they passed unheeded into the night.