“Whatever your Grace commands shall be my duty to obey,” is her answer, the submission of her words contrasting strangely with the dark scowl which knits her brow.
“Be it so, sweetheart. I have that to say touching yourself, which will surprise her. It were best said in your absence.” And rising feebly upright, he leads her by the hand into the inner patio, and lover-like kisses her hand.
At this moment, Garcia de Padilla, who has remained an unobserved witness of the interview, rushes forward, and, with effusive courtesy, offers his arm to the king to assist him to his seat, bows to the ground, and is lost to view among the pillars.
Then, resuming the conversation with the queen: “You forget, my mother,” says Don Pedro, as he places her beside him (it is said, he never was more dangerous than when he assumed a gracious air), “that this demoiselle of France, who bears my name, has been convicted of incest with my brother Fadique by a council of bishops appointed for that purpose, and that, far from being a prisoner, she is at this moment free, in the city of Toledo, under the chivalric custody of my rival and successor, Enrique el Caballero. You forget I am superseded, dishonoured. Ha! ha! Yes! dishonoured by these bastards, whom you had not the sense to wring the necks of, when they were young.”
“Yes, Pedro, but I am confident all this will be set right. I have received such assurance during your illness, from Toledo, that I know you will overcome your brother whenever you take the field. As to Blanche——”
“Yes, madam,” interrupting her, “but as yet I am too weak to wield a weapon. I think you can have little to say to me,” he adds coldly, “that the Lady Padilla could not hear. It is her son I have named my successor, and the lady declares she is my lawful wife. What if I proclaim her such to the assembled Cortes?”
“Mother of God!” cries the queen, clasping her hands, a look of absolute horror on her face, “give me patience! To be so mocked at by my son! Such madness is impossible!”
“Not a whit! Not a whit!” he exclaims, facing the infuriated queen. “Now, by the heavens above, Blanche of Bourbon shall die! And speedily too! My mind is made up.”
Alas! The strain upon the unhappy mother is too great. As the king utters these words, she staggers backwards, a deadly pallor overspreads her face, and with a wild cry of “My son! My son!” holding out her arms in the vain hope of his support, she falls fainting on the floor, and is borne away by her ladies waiting without in the Patio de las Doncellas.