The scaffold was erected in the Plaza Mayor, in the centre of the city of Valladolid, where so many autos-da-fé came afterwards to be celebrated under Philip II.
A large crucifix was placed in front of the stage, upon which was spread a carpet of black velvet. The block and axe were there, but partially concealed by the tall figure of the executioner, masked and robed in scarlet.
From the moment he had received the intimation of his doom, the fortitude and composure of the constable inspired respect even among his enemies. With an unmoved countenance he met the high officers of state at the door of the apartment he occupied in the Casa de las Argollas, and listened to the sentence of death and the enumeration of the crimes which were laid to his charge.
Not a word passed his lips. He might have been a statue of stone but for a sad, tranquil smile, and the grave courtesy of the salute with which he returned the reverences of the judges.
Now the trumpets sounded their shrill note, the clarion answered, and the procession marched forward. First the parti-coloured herald with his gay cap and tabard, rehearsing in a loud voice the reasons for which the High Constable was to suffer. A body of men-at-arms followed in two ranks, marching to the sound of muffled drums.
The constable himself next, mounted on a mule. He wore high-heeled shoes with diamond buckles and an ample Castilian mantle reaching to his chin. By his side rode his confessor.
The multitude which thronged the city to see this extraordinary sight was immense; not only Valladolid and Burgos, but from all the burghs and villages about for fifty miles.
As the people gazed open-eyed at the fall of the Master of Castile, much as he was detested in life, murmurs of compassion were heard on every side, as, with an air of dignified leisure, he dismounted, and slowly ascended the steps of the scaffold.
Arrived at the summit, he stood for a moment lost in thought as his eyes ranged over the sea of faces uplifted to his, surging like the troubled action of the waves. The stone colonnade which still surrounds the Plaza was crammed; in every window, terrace, mirador, and balcony, the eager countenances of massed-up spectators seemed to clothe the walls.
Raising his plumed hat for a moment from his head, he scanned the multitude come to see him die. In front of the scaffold stood his enemy, Don Enrique, Infante of Aragon, whose efforts to depose Don Juan he had for years successfully combated. Around him gathered a group of nobles of the queen’s party.