“Then let us die together,” replies Don Fadique.
They are standing hand in hand, backed by the high Gothic casement. The fretted frame, filled with devices, crowns, and coats of arms, casts a pale reflex on them. The sun is setting behind the castellated towers of San Pablo, opposite, and soft fragrant shadows gather in the chamber. Both in their hearts are longing that this moment may last for ever.
Deeper and deeper the shadows fell, engulfing the two young figures in its gloom, save where a shaft of vivid light fell upon them like a sword, the point turned towards them.
“My love,” murmurs Don Fadique, passionately, “do you hear me?”
As Blanche moved in response, a sudden light was in her eyes that had never been there before—a Moorish scarf Claire had placed around her fell from her waist.
“This shall be my talisman,” cries Don Fadique, stooping to pick it up, “the token of your love, and my safeguard in battle. You will not refuse me?”
“Oh! hide it, hide it,” whispers Blanche under her breath. “Claire may come in and miss it.”
Then there was a dead silence which neither of them broke.
Suddenly, with a crash like thunder, the clatter of horses’ feet rises up from the patio; the clang of armed men is in the air, the roll of cumbrous equipages, and the shrill voice of drums and clarions. Now a single horseman rides in and challenges the guard. Then there is the sound of marching of many feet and the far-off blare of trumpets.
Blanche rose to her feet, speechless with terror. Was the king already there? Where could Claire be?