Within the Patio de la Monteria the shadows of the Moorish arches rise black in the darkness of the storm, all save the portal of Don Pedro, which blazes out tier upon tier up to the gilded dome.
More and more astonished, Don Fadique dismounts and fastens his horse’s bridle to an iron hook in one of the pillars, and looks round, the glossy-skinned animal giving a whinny of delight as he passes his hand mechanically over its sleek neck. It is the last token of affection he is destined to receive!
Suddenly a burst of shrill laughter from the long row of miradores over the portal arouses him to a full sense of his danger. That he has been betrayed by his brother is certain.
As a drowning man is said in an instant to review all his former life, so Don Fadique recalled the many warnings of evil which had come to him, renewed even at the gate of the Alcazar.
Still his gallant heart did not fail, but when he saw above at the mirador a dark-haired lady leaning out with lustrous eyes, a chill shot through his veins. He felt that his end was near.
Then in the midst of the rattle of the storm, the roll of the thunder, and the quickly succeeding flashes of lightning, there arises a sudden uproar, the clash of weapons, and the heavy tread of mailed feet. Nor has Don Fadique long to wait to assure himself of the welcome Don Pedro has prepared for him.
From under the glowing shadows of the golden portal, a band of armed men rush forth, who drag him forward through tapestried doorways to dimly gorgeous ante-chambers with deeply sunk cedar ceilings overhead, into suites of halls lined with painted panels and azulejo tiles darkly resplendent in escutcheons of castle, lion, bar, tower, and that mysterious nodo which clasps Aragon with Spain,—into the precincts of the great Patio de las Doncellas, so purely beautiful in the whiteness of its lacy arcades.
There, upon the Caliph’s burnished throne, sits Don Pedro, a canopy of gold over his head and damascened draperies behind. A terrible frown knits his brow and his eyes are dilated with rage, but Don Fadique does not heed. Forcing back the guards, he flings himself upon his knees before him.
“Brother! brother!” he cries, “what means this hostile array? I have come upon your word. Tell me that you have not deceived me!”
“Stand off, bold traitor!” answers the king savagely, casting him from him. “Have you forgotten your perfidy at Narbonne? Do you think I did not know that, and all else? Were you fool enough to imagine that I loved you?” and as he speaks he breaks into one of those fiendish peals of laughter, ever so terrible a climax to his wrath. “Surely, if the Lady Blanche is your leman, you are ready to shed your blood for her sake?”