“What!” cried Don Enrique next day, when the prelate at the head of the deputation of nobles appeared before him in the Sala del Trono, when, surrounded by his attendant lancers, splendidly equipped, he sat under the baldaquino on the chair of state, the whole room glittering with gilded panels, retablos, and mirrors, doubling the array of hostile figures before him, “What! you dare dictate to me—your king? How long is it, my lord archbishop, that you, our metropolitan, set the example
of disobedience? And you, my Lord of Benevente,” as according to his vehement nature, Pimentel had thrust himself more forward than the rest, “who come of such ancient stock, are you not ashamed to appear as a rebel? And you,” addressing the rest, “go back to your homes and learn obedience. What! I am to depose my daughter Juana at your bidding?”
A loud murmur here interrupted him for a moment, and the name of Beltrano was distinctly heard.
The colour mounted furiously to the face of the king, who, like all of his family, was a fair and comely prince; his eyes grew dangerously bright, and he laid his hand on the hilt of the dagger at his side.