“Tell my master and yours, Don Juan the the king,” he said, speaking in a clear voice, addressing himself to the Infante, “that he may find the crown fit better on his brow now that I am gone, who made it too heavy for him.” Then turning to his page Morales, convulsed with grief, who had followed him to the scaffold, bearing on his arm, neatly folded, a scarlet cloak to cover his body after decapitation, his lofty bearing softened and his voice trembled as he spoke: “Alas! my poor boy, you, who owe me nothing, weep for me; and my master the king, who owes me so much gratitude, desires nothing but my death!”
He then took off his hat, which he handed to Morales, together with a ring, placing it on his finger. His face was perfectly serene and his clustering curls hung upon his broad shoulders, scented and tended as carefully as heretofore.
Standing in front of the platform, the crimson figure of the executioner backing him, the whole multitude was moved to pity, and notable sounds of lamentation rent the air.
That this public testimony of sympathy gratified him exceedingly, the smile that lighted up his face plainly showed. He placed his hand on his heart and again saluted the vast assembly. “No manner of death brings shame,” he said, “if supported with courage. Nor can the end of life be deemed premature when it has been passed at the head of the state with probity and wisdom. I wish the King of Castile a happy life, and his people the same prosperity I brought to them.”
He then examined the block on which his head was to be laid, loosened the lace ruff about his throat, smoothed back his hair from his neck, and took a black ribbon from his vest, which he handed to the executioner to bind his hands.
After praying very fervently before the crucifix, repeating the words of his confessor aloud, he stood up.
“I am ready,” he said; “begin!” And with a movement full of grandeur, he knelt, rested his head on the block, and at one stroke it was severed from the body.
