“Harm her not, Ruy Gomez,” orders the king, “and let her go.” And in deep thought he turns away.
In his general contempt for all mankind, the king held his nurse in great esteem. When he was sick or wounded she tended him, and in his darkest moods she could approach him when others fled.
But for his promise to Maria de Padilla, he would never have slain a brother who came in peace, under his roof, and now another is to die likewise; he had given her his word. Thinking of all this his brow grew dark as he mounted the secret stair which led into his retiring-room, with the skeleton heads of the four unjust judges hung over the door.
No one dared enter, and for three days and nights he lay there in darkness.
CHAPTER X
Don Pedro—Alcazar—The Queen-Mother—Maria de Padilla
HE Hall of the Ambassadors, literally a blaze of iris hues and gold, is crowned by a lofty dome, and sheeted with a Moorish mosaic of mother-of-pearl and crystal.
Around range the medallions of the ancient Gothic kings, over four golden-barred balconies breaking the richness of the wall, dividing triply-grouped arches, light as dreams, resting on pillars of green and red porphyry, so tall and slender it seems as if a breath would shatter them.
From an open portal is disclosed a palace garden flushed with roses, and bordered by blossoming orange-trees, set in large porcelain pots. Butterflies flutter round delicate fountains banked up with tropical plants exquisite in perfume, and long vistas of bowery walks exclude the sun.
A warm and genial air beats in from without, and permeates around. Nor is the fairness of the earth less than the brightness of the sky—intensely blue, not a cloud visible; and although the Alcazar stands in the midst of a noisy city, the silence and solitude are complete.