A tone of offended dignity is in his voice, but he does not condescend to any other expression.
“I come on a warrant from the king,” answers Zuniga, displaying a parchment which he hands to the herald, who holds it up extended on a lance.
“The king!” cries Luna, with more passion than he has yet shown. “It is a lie! This is some foul scheme to trap me into your hands.”
“Look at that document,” cries Zuniga, chafing under the insolent bearing of the constable, and as the sun, which has now risen, shines upon the rocky platform on which they stand before the castle, the brilliant colours of “the castle and the lion,” are plainly displayed emblazoned on the sheet. “If you submit,” continues Zuniga, advancing to where Luna stands at the casement, “such respect as your rank entitles you to is guaranteed; I swear it on the honour of a Castilian. My orders are to conduct you to Valladolid in honourable custody, and to demand your sword.”
“Take my life with it, if you list!” cries Luna, in a voice of bitter anguish, “if my lord and master has in truth given me into your hands.”
The one desire of Luna was to obtain an interview with the king. Well did he estimate his craven and helpless nature and that, if once admitted to his presence, the long supremacy he had exercised over him would at once return. The queen was equally determined that so dangerous an interview should not take place. It was the influence of the moment which always decided Don Juan, if any decision he ever had at all.
“I will not admit the Conde de Luna to my presence,” was his answer to the messengers sent to Burgos.
“Nor has such a traitor the right to ask it,” added the queen—who now habitually took part in the Council of State—standing behind him, her dark eyes flashing fire.
Three long days passed within the noble hall with the artesonado ceiling, where Luna was confined in the Casa de las Argollas (the iron links), still entire and standing in the Plaza Viega of Valladolid—three days of terrible suspense, yet with the absolute assurance that Don Juan would relent. He had been guilty of no crime; he deserved no punishment from the master he had so faithfully served. His arrogant nature was maddened under the delay, but he suppressed the expression of his indignation until he should stand face to face with the king.
The long hours passed, no message came. Then, yielding to the alarm of the friends who had gathered round him, he wrote that historic letter, each word of which has come down to us.