“My lord,” answers Emanuel, falling on his knees, for the majesty of the king has subdued him, “I had my reasons. Ask me not to speak evil of dignitaries,” and he gazes round at the rampart of glaring eyes.
“Speak,” answers the king; “the dead is silent, the living man must tell the tale. Speak, or tortures shall make you. Were it even myself you had to accuse, I command you, speak. The crime is public, so shall be the punishment. I live before my people.”
Cries of “Castila! Castila!” come from the excited crowd. Caps are flung in the air and loud vivas! come from the beggars and ruffians of the street.
Behind Don Pedro rises the Moorish arch of the Puerta del Perdon, a sheet of delicate carving, white as snow, framing his figure as in a picture. Above rises the cathedral, a gigantic pile of richly carved cornices and tier above tier of carved parapets and domes, the walls ornamented with innumerable niched figures, bosses, roses, and stars. On one side of the street lies the murdered priest in his sacerdotal robes, the painted dolls on the other, the stately form of the archbishop between, his hands folded, his eyes cast down in prayer, the affrighted chapter gathering about him in purple robes, and behind the populace eagerly pressing round the king.
Then Emanuel speaks: “Sire, my father is a zapatero (shoemaker); I follow the same trade. We are poor but honest, no one reviles us. My lord, I had a sister,” as the word passes his lips he quivers all over, and looking down on the canon’s blood, which has made for itself a little runnel among the stones, he savagely stamps on it, while at the word “sister” a cynical smile passes over the king’s lips and the majesty of his attitude relaxes.
“She was hermosa,” continues Emanuel, not noticing the change, “muy hermosa. Every one looked at her. She went to confession in the cathedral at the altar near the image of Santo Cristoforo, twice, three times—we could not think why she went so often—then she disappeared. We sought her everywhere, in the market, the stalls, the exchange, by the river, in the narrow alleys, and at the gates. No one had seen her. After some days her body was found in a deep ditch near the river. Then we knew the truth, and who had dealt with her. Of the foul deed and who had done it we spoke. Three days after, my father’s body was brought to us, stabbed to the heart. Then, upon the wounds of Christ, I swore an oath to kill the beast who wore the robe of God to defile it, and I have kept my word.”
In the tumult of his soul, Emanuel forgot the presence of the king, the crowd, the occasion, all but his passion of vengeance.
“And if the crime was so public,” asks the king, whose attention has deepened as he proceeded, “and your father talked so loud that he was stabbed for it, what punishment did the archbishop and the chapter impose on the canon?”
“His punishment!” cries Emanuel. “Ha! that is just it. His punishment! Por Dios!”—and such a volley of words comes he can scarcely articulate—“The chapter! Yes, the chapter held a court in the sacristy with closed doors, the villains! and condemned him not to say Mass for one year!!”
“Then,” cries Don Pedro, in his harsh voice and a bitter smile on his face, for the young man’s courage pleases him, and his honest eyes, “I condemn you, Emanuel el zapatero, to pass one year without making shoes.”