So like was the dead face to Don Pedro, that for an instant Maria’s heart melted, and she turned away.
“What, Maria,” exclaimed Don Pedro, sneeringly, “fear you to look on the face of a dead enemy? Rather tremble before a living one! The boy is dead; all traitors deserve to die”; and advancing from where he stood in the archway, he spurned the body with his foot, laying bare the pool of blood in which it lay.
And strange to say, after the lapse of five centuries, the stain is there on the marble pavement still, close under three clustered pillars of green porphyry, supporting a richly worked Moorish arch.
But before Maria can reply, a shrill cry rises from the white pillars that makes the patio ring, and an ancient dame hurries forward, and with her stick puts back the guards who stand around.
With a horrified glance at the upturned face of the dead Grand Master, she turns upon the king:
“What bloody work is this, Don Pedro? I have a right to ask, for I reared you both at my breast. Oh! my child, my child!” sinking down beside him on the ground, and tenderly gathering the dead form in her arms. “Oh, my Fadique, my little one. So much you were alike, the queen-mother only knew you from the crown embroidered on Pedro’s robe. Even the queen loved the boy.” Then with a piercing shriek she raises herself from the ground, and her sunken eyes travel round upon the group, first on the king, then on Maria de Padilla. “Let the hand that struck him be accursed!”
“He was my enemy, and I killed him,” answers Don Pedro, but he did not chide her, nor question her right to speak.
“It is that accursed woman!” and the nurse raises her bony fingers and points towards Maria as her tall figure disappears in the deep shadow of the arches. “May Satan take her! And that soon! She has falsely accused him. Oh, Pedro! I loved you as much as him. Now I curse you, you cruel king! By the same bloody death shall you also die. The witch!” shaking her fist towards the spot where Maria has vanished; “a thousand such as she may be found in Spain, but who will replace the true brother that you have lost?” As she speaks, a strange fire shines in her dim eyes, and her wrinkled face is transfigured with a sudden light. The voice in which she speaks seems not her own, but strong and vigorous, as though a wave of youth had passed over her.
“I have spoken,” and she fell prostrate on the body of Don Fadique as the captain of the guard drew his sword, as if to smite her, and his men made a circle round.
“Ask the king if I shall die,” turning to Don Pedro, who has covered his face with his hands. “I care not, but let me lay him on my breast. Oh! child of my love, the youngest and the best!”