“Cover yourself well, my boy,” said he to the little page, as he drew his own dark manto over his armour. “The hurricane will be soon upon us. We shall be fortunate if we reach the Alcazar in time.”
As they passed what are now the boulevards, such trees as there were swayed and bowed to the fierce blast, and quickly succeeding thunder was heard among the hills. Not a sound reached them as they struck through the streets to where the beautiful cathedral stands, consecrated as a Christian church by Fernando el Santo, and as yet but little altered from the mosque it was before.
It was part of Don Pedro’s policy in all things to favour the Moors. Indeed, there were times in his strange moods when he swore he was a Mohammedan himself.
As the herald sounds his trumpet-call before the gate of the Alcazar, waiting for the portcullis to be raised, an aged pilgrim in tattered raiment rises up suddenly before Fadique.
“Turn back, my son. Turn while you may,” and he lays his hand on his horse’s bridle. “Take warning by the heavens! The elements are at war. So is man. For the sake of your dead mother I speak. Enter not the Alcazar. Warned by a vision, I girded up my loins, and have walked from the Sierra Morena here. As the blood of Eleanor de Guzman was shed on the stones of Seville, so shall be yours.”
“I heed you not, old man,” answered Don Fadique, shaking him off impatiently, provoked at his insistence in barring his progress. “Hie you back whither you came. My brother has bid me to Seville, and I am come,” and with that he spurred his horse forward; but the noble animal, as though scenting some evil influence in the air, pranced and plunged, and with the utmost difficulty was prevented from turning back.
Again the trumpet sounds a shrill blast. In vain! The Alcazar seems turned into a castle of the dead. No guards are upon the walls, no soldiers on the lookout in the Moorish towers which flank the portcullis. To the summons of the men-at-arms no response is given; the royal standard is not lowered as to an Infante Grand Master of Santiago, nor is there any answer to the reiterated knocking of the little page with the hilt of his sword upon the thickly barred panels of the door. Dismally does the blue-eyed boy look up at his master, a whole soul of love in his eyes, as if gazing at him for the last time, and loudly do his followers murmur to each other at the strange lack of welcome.
Nor can Don Fadique account for it. Growing impatient as the rain begins to fall, he looks about him on all sides. There is no preparation for the tournament of which the letter of Don Pedro spoke. No line of tents along the river bank with rich devices, or pinnacles of silken pavilions dressed with colours and flags breaking the long lines of the Huerta. The streets are silent and empty as the rain now pours down; the vast mosque stands isolated and solitary, veiled by rising mists. No eager crowd gathers round the Puerta del Sol or in the court of the Naranjos, as when festivals and ceremonies draw strangers to Seville. The howling of a dog alone breaks the silence.
At length, with no outward sign, the portcullis is slowly raised, and Don Fadique, spurring his horse, gallops in, but rapidly the great panels sink again, shutting out all his train. As the clink of the iron bolt is heard falling into the staples, a shrill cry of agony rises in the air. The hand of the little page who followed him on foot has been severed from the wrist as he hung onto Don Fadique’s bridle, and lies upon the stones before him.
Don Fadique is alone; no return is possible; his heart sinks within him at the sight, but he can neither help the poor page shut outside, nor liberate himself. It is too late.