As he speaks Blanche throws herself at his feet; her veil falls back. She weeps, but her tears do not mar the fresh beauty of her face.
“Save me, my lord!” she cries. “Save me, for the love of God.”
She clasps her hands, as if addressing a deity. Her sobs drown her voice, which still murmurs, “Save me! Save me!”
Enrique’s eyes fill with tears. He stoops and raises her, imprinting on her cheek a royal kiss of welcome.
“You will not betray me to Don Pedro?” she whispers, seizing his mailed hand.
“Betray you!” he answers, greatly moved. “Rather die! If I am a crowned king, I am no less a belted knight. There is no right of chivalry more precious than the succour of distress, especially that of a royal lady allied to us by marriage. Our entrance into the city of Toledo was by surprise; there are here no noble ladies to form your court at the Alcazar; but such rough welcome as a soldier can afford is yours, fair queen. I pray you to honour our quarters with your presence, where I have already ordered such preparations to be made as are possible.”
Something in the voice and aspect of Enrique so powerfully reminded Blanche of Fadique, that she remained utterly speechless, to the great distress of Claire, who whispered into her ear, “For the sake of the Virgin, who has sent him, thank him as he deserves.”
Enrique, quickly penetrating the sense of the words, saluting her graciously, replied:
“I desire no thanks from the queen. If I did, I much mistake me if the noble demoiselle with whom I speak could not as fittingly reply as her mistress.”
At this compliment, spoken with all the charm of Spanish gallantry, Claire blushes deeply, and holds down her head.