And now the moment has come which will decide her life.
All human lights are extinguished. The moon rides high in the heaven in fields of azure light over the sleeping town of Valladolid. The stars have come out one by one, doubling themselves on the shallow waters of the Pisuerga that flows by the walls through woods of light-branched aspen and elm. Not a breath stirs outside the old palace, so quaint in its homely outlines, except when the sereno passes and rouses the ire of some whelping cur to bay at the full moon. Looking at that quiet front, who could guess that a drama is to be enacted within between two young princes, the issue of which will permanently alter the politics, religion, and government, not only of the Old World but of the New, shortly to be discovered by Columbus?
As midnight strikes at San Pablo, the tapestry is withdrawn, and, under the sudden glare of torches and candles, the Archbishop of Toledo appears, leading in the upright figure of the Infante of Aragon concealed in a cloak. With him enters Don Gutierra de Cardeñas, and, too impatient to wait for the more formal presentation of the archbishop, he presses on Ferdinand in front of the Infanta.
“Look at him!” he cries, “Ese es” (this is he), in memory of which the Cardeñas’ shield still bears the letters S.S.
The more formal introduction of the archbishop follows.
“Doña Isabel of Castile,” says the prelate who has seen so many deaths, births, and espousals in the House of Trastamare, putting aside the too zealous Don Gutierra, “I bring you your affianced lord. May God and Santiago ratify your choice!”
Face to face they stood—the spouses. He is eighteen, she sixteen; both auburn-complexioned with the old Gothic colouring; she, marble-throated, serene, with the shoulders of a goddess and the gesture of a queen; he, bronzed by exposure, bright-eyed, manly, and portly; already incipient lines gather about his mouth, to harden later into an expression of severity and almost of cruelty; but he is gentle and smiling now, and his soldier-like bearing suits him well.
For a moment he stands confused before Isabel, then casting from him the hooded mantle in which he is enveloped, he kneels before her and kisses her hand.
“Oh! my Infanta, what condescension!” he murmurs, in a low voice, a little sharp in its tone from the habit of command. “I trembled lest I had been too bold. But for the danger to your Highness from the opposition of the king, I should not have dared to approach you thus.”
“You are welcome, Infante of Aragon,” says Isabel, raising him to her side. “The archbishop has been the agent of my warmest desire in bringing you. It is time, an armed force is about to secure me. That you have happily passed the frontier, I thank God.” A lovely colour has overspread her cheeks as she speaks. Her eyes are fixed on Ferdinand in an earnest gaze, which softens into a glance of exquisite sweetness. For the first time in her life she feels the thrill of that love which is to last her all her life, one love, entire and single, which comes down to us in history as the fairest example of wedded bliss. The effect she makes on Ferdinand, bold as he is in act and nature, and knowing that he comes as an accepted suitor for her hand, is altogether overwhelming. Night, darkness, the mystery of their meeting—so unlike a royal wooing—the youthful dignity of her presence, her beauty, far exceeding report, come over him in a passionate longing to carry her away and never let her go.