What! he told himself, as he cast sad glances upon the paper, and pang after pang of real sorrow shot from his inmost soul—the death of Luna, whom he had loved when yet a little child, and his firm hand upheld his tottering steps! The man in whom he had placed implicit trust and whose genius left to him only the luxury, not the cares, of sovereignty. Luna, the brave, the poetic knight, whose romantic career had fired his fancy with the enthusiasm of a second Cid! Luna, his favourite, friend, the support of his throne! The touch of his familiar hand seemed to grasp his own! The superb majesty of his presence became tangible to him as he paced up and down the apartment, a prey to a waking vision, called up by the vivid image of his life. The constable! Always the constable! Where was he? Would he answer to his call, and make his life pleasant to him as heretofore? For a moment he forgot the existence of the queen. Her blandishments and pleadings faded away as a mist before the sun. His weak mind, unable to battle with such a tumult of ideas, recalled no reason why his great minister should not be before him. There, opposite, on the seat where he had sat so many years, and raised his sonorous voice to comfort him. Dead! Condemned! Impossible! It was an evil dream. His hand was already outstretched to rend the parchment, the sight of which had caused him such agitation, and by swift messengers to recall him to his side, when Queen Isabel stood before him.
“What! my dear lord!” she cried, in that melodious voice which she never allowed to reach his ears but as a harmony, laying her hand upon his as she spoke and drawing him from the table where the sentence lay, “can it be true that you hesitate, when my safety and that of the nation are at stake?”
In a confused silence he listened.
Attired in long robes of deepest mourning, which set off the luscious brilliance of her complexion, she looked the ideal embodiment of woe. Her large eyes were dull and veiled as she turned them imploringly on the king, her whole being expressed the most poignant grief. Isabel was perhaps the handsomest woman of her time, and, as such, bequeathed it to her great daughter, Isabella of Aragon. She was at least the most subtle. She knew that as long as Luna lived, the king might escape her at any moment.
Impulsively she grasped both his hands, she laid her cheeks next to his. Thus they stood for awhile; his arms clasped around her in a fervid embrace. What beauty, what devotion was hers! Could he pain this transcendent creature? These tears which lay on her eyelids like roseate dew he could kiss off, but no further cause must be given her to shed them.
“Oh, Juan!” she whispered, her words reaching his ears like ineffable sighs, “why will you spare the criminal whose death I desire? Why will you support a wretch whom every noble in your kingdom would see in his grave? Your very crown is in danger! Your son is in revolt! Your cousin, the Infante of Aragon, favours him; the King of Navarre——”
At the detested name of Navarre and his cousin of Aragon, who were both, in this troubled and odious reign, continually conspiring against him, the king gave a great start. Such energy as he possessed suddenly came back to him.
“If you could prove that, my Reina!” he cried, every feature in his face working with passion.
“I can! I can!” she answered; “the proofs are in my possession.” Then, gently drawing him towards the table, on which lay the fatal document, she placed a pen in his hand. “Sign, Juan,” she said, “for the sake of my unborn child!”
Even at that moment his hand trembled so violently that he could scarcely form the letters of his name.