To look at the radiant scene, on which a fierce sun shoots down, no one would imagine that, but a few weeks since, Don Enrique was wandering over Spain, an outcast and a rebel.
Presently a burly, thick-set noble appears, wearing a dark velvet manto, high fur-edged cap, and Cordoba boots, provided with spurs which clank as he moves. His presence instantly impresses silence on those around; for Don Jaime Alvarez is as rough in his manners as are his native Asturian mountains; not a man to be trifled with at home or abroad. He at least clearly estimates the dangers of the present position, and casts a grim scowl on the frivolous idlers loitering about.
As he leans over the balustrade, halfway up the sculptured marble stair, his eye wanders round as if in search of some one, and again he frowns as he notes the careless bearing of the sentinels who guard the entrance, and the peals of laughter which break from time to time from the undercurrent of talk below.
But he has not long to wait. His satisfied glance shows it as a dark figure emerges from the crowd and he is joined by Albuquerque, much changed since his last interview with Don Pedro in the cloisters of the church of San Juan at Valladolid. The great minister, disgusted by the ingratitude of his master and the insults of Maria de Padilla, has changed sides, and is now attached to the varying fortunes of Don Enrique. He is thinner, and slightly bent, and his once commanding eyes are dimmer and sadder.
As he approaches Don Jaime, an audible sigh passes his lips. Now, instead of at once settling the affairs of state with the unruly Don Pedro, who bears more respect to him than to any one else, he must consult with a colleague who naturally regards him with suspicion as a renegade, who from a bitter enemy has become a doubtful friend.
“Shall we sit apart in the gallery?” Albuquerque asks, after ceremonious greetings have been exchanged between the rival counsellors, as they mount the steps together to the upper gallery, supported by slender pillars rising from a carved balustrade of singular richness in scroll work, stars, and arabesques; “or shall we enter the apartments?”
“The heat is great,” is the reply, “let us remain here.”
“Have you informed Don Enrique of the news?” anxiously asks Albuquerque, eyeing doubtfully the set face of the man before him. “I myself have not seen him this morning.”
“If you mean his Grace the king, I have not either,” answers Don Jaime drily, his naturally ill-favoured countenance darkening into a most unpleasant expression.
“But he must instantly know what has happened,” returns Albuquerque.