“If your Graces,” he says, breaking an icy silence, “are not contented with the first course I have offered you, I hope the second will be more to your taste. Will you follow me, Grandezas?” rising from his chair.
“A second course!” There was, then, something prepared to eat, and a buzz of satisfaction passed round, as each caballero left his hard bench to follow the young king.
A vast hall lay beyond, of interminable extent, dimly lighted, and hung with black. A coffin, covered with a pall, lay beside an altar in the midst, surmounted with a crucifix. Shrouds lay beside it, with implements to dig a grave, and all the other ghastly paraphernalia of the dead.
“Close the doors, jefe,” said the king, in a voice of command never heard from his lips before, as he placed himself like a young judge in front of the altar. “You see, my lords, the second course I serve to you. But before you partake of it, I would address some questions to those who have up to this time governed in my name. Stand forth, Archbishop of Toledo, joint Regent of the kingdom, and tell me how many kings you have known in Castile?”
“Excellency,” answered the bewildered prelate, growing cold under the apprehension that not only the king was mad, but was about to murder him, “I have known three: your grandsire of glorious memory, your father, Don Juan, and yourself.”
“For shame, your Grace!” exclaimed Enrique, in an austere tone. “What! A prelate lie? How dare you, at your age, assert that you have known only three kings, when I, who have barely reached man’s estate, can reckon at least double the number? Yes, my assembled nobles, barons, princes, prelates, knights, and ricoshombres, who know me so little as to think, because I am young and inexperienced, I can be deceived. Six sovereigns reign in Castile besides the lawful heir, carefully excluded from all power, to the damage of the state. Now I call upon the usurpers of my rights, especially the most venerable archbishop,” launching at him a look of bitter reproach, “his Grace the Marqués de Villena, Master of Santiago, also the treasurer, bearing the high name of Don Pedro de Mendoza, and the other ‘kings’ to lay their submission at my feet!”
Words cannot paint the consternation of the noble company at these words and at the commanding aspect of the young king as he stood forth, the awful emblems of death behind him.
What doom was he about to pronounce? What judgment would he pass on the guilty? And it need not be said how many of those present felt themselves to be such, and with the superstitious horror of the age at anything unusual, trembled lest by some occult knowledge he had read their treacherous thoughts.
Then came denials, vehement asseverations, protestations, and recriminations; loudest of all, because most in danger, sounded the sonorous voice of the archbishop and the mellifluous tones of Villena.
“If we have erred,” cried the marquess, “it is only by excess of zeal to spare your Highness from the burden of public affairs.”