At this time Maria de Padilla falls suddenly sick of a mortal malady. Stretched on an Oriental couch of purple stuff, within her golden-walled chamber she lies longing for the return of Don Pedro, far away battling in Aragon. Plunged in the torpor of a sudden fever, her hand vaguely wanders among the meshes of her glossy hair, still sown with the pearls she had placed there overnight. From whom does she shrink, this terrible beauty, gathering herself together until her henna-tipped fingers sinking into her flesh, she cries loudly for Don Pedro, and shriek after shriek comes from her as she flings herself into the arms of her slaves?
It is an evil death, haunted by phantoms. No priest comes to soothe her dying moments. She is held to be a witch, in league with the Evil One. The sacraments of the Church cannot be brought to such as she. But on Don Pedro’s return to Seville she is laid to rest in the cathedral under the dome of the Capilla Real, beside the sovereigns of Castile, and such regal titles as were refused her in life are given to her in death.
The Cortes are assembled, and Don Pedro solemnly proclaims her his lawful wife and her children, one son and three daughters, legitimate. No one believes it, though witnesses are called as having been present at the ceremony, but no one dares to deny it and Maria de Padilla is buried as she has lived—a queen.
Whatever Don Pedro feels at the loss of the woman he loved, he conceals it. This is no time for grief. Furious at the growing success of El Caballero, Don Pedro signs a hasty peace with Aragon, and threatens to attack his ancient allies, the Moors.
Much alarmed, they send an ambassador to Seville, in the person of Mahomed Barbarossa, the Rey Bermejo, charged with rich presents to appease him.
In the midst of a superb procession rides the Red King, the accoutrements of his horse set with jewelled fringes; on his head he wears the green turban of the followers of the Prophet, and in the centre, conspicuous among a galaxy of gems, three enormous rubies are set, the middle one, known as “the Balax,” big as a pigeon’s egg. When he beholds Don Pedro in royal robes, standing on the threshold of his gorgeous portal, surrounded by such of the brilliant Castilians who as yet are true to him, the dusky emir is moved to smile, and as he dismounts to kiss Don Pedro’s hand, the Balax gleaming like fire on his head, his steely blue eyes fix on it greedily, and it is clear to Don Juan who stands behind, that strong passion of some kind moves him.
Long he contemplates in silence the turban of the Moor; then, turning abruptly to Don Juan, he whispers: “What right has the Infidel to wear such gems? While my treasury is empty he comes here to flaunt them in my face. Mark me, amigo mio, I will have that Balax before the day is old. It is worth a king’s ransom and will some day stand me in good stead.”
“I pray your Grace not to contemplate so villainous a project,” is Don Juan’s reply. “You have enemies enough, methinks, without making more. I will not help you. I am willing to second you, as my liege and sovereign, in the field or the duelo, to the death, but by St. Helena or any other male or female saint, I cannot stand by you in a matter of open spoiling of your guest.”
“No, but the gems, the gems,” returns the king in the same whisper. “I never saw the like! I cannot take my eyes from them!”
“That may or may not be. It is no concern of mine, my lord. I am no merchant to adjudge their value; nor do I care for such toys except on the bosom of the fair, where I would be before your Grace in plucking them. Otherwise, let every man and every Moor, I say, possess his own; and if the emir likes to deck himself like a peacock he is free for me.”