THE King of Castile was going to the Moorish war and, in order to contend with the enemies of the faith, he had sent a martial summons to all the flower of his nobility. The silent streets of Toledo now resounded night and day with the stirring sound of kettle-drums and trumpets; and in the Moorish gateway of Visagra, or in that of Cambrón, or in the narrow entrance to the ancient bridge of St. Martin, not an hour passed without one’s hearing the hoarse cry of the sentinels proclaiming the arrival of some knight who, preceded by his seigniorial banner and followed by horsemen and foot-soldiers, had come to join the main body of the Castilian army.
The time which remained before taking the road to the frontier and completing the order of the royal hosts was spent in public entertainments, lavish feasts and brilliant tournaments, until at last, on the evening before the day appointed by His Highness for the setting out of the army, a grand ball closed the festivities.
On the night of the ball, the royal palace presented a singular appearance. In the spacious courts might be seen, promiscuously mingled around huge bonfires, a motley multitude of pages, soldiers, crossbowmen and hangers-on, who, some grooming their chargers and polishing their arms preparatory to combat, others bewailing with outcries and blasphemies the unforeseen turns of Fortune, personified for them in the cast of the dice, and others chorusing the refrain of a martial ballad which a minstrel was chanting to the accompaniment of a rude violin; others still buying of a palmer cockle-shells, crosses and girdles hallowed by the touch of the sepulchre of Santiago, or greeting with wild outbursts of laughter the jokes of a clown, or practising on the trumpets the battle-airs of the several seigniories, or telling old stories of chivalry and love adventures, or of miracles recently performed,—all contributed their quota to an infernal, undistinguishable uproar impossible to describe in words.
Above that tumultuous ocean of war songs, noise of hammers smiting anvils, creaking of files that bit the steel, stamping of horses, insolent voices, irrepressible laughter, disorderly shouts and intemperate reproaches, oaths and all manner of strange, discordant sounds, there floated at intervals like a breath of harmony the distant music of the ball.
This, which was taking place in the salons of the second story of the palace, offered in its turn a picture, if not so fantastic and capricious, more dazzling and magnificent.
Through galleries of far extent which formed an intricate labyrinth of slender columns and ogees of fretted stone delicate as lace; through great halls hung with tapestries on which silk and gold had pictured with a thousand diverse colors scenes of love, of the chase and of war,—halls adorned with trophies of arms and escutcheons over which was shed a sea of sparkling light from innumerable lamps, suspended from the loftiest vaults, and from candelabras of bronze, silver and gold, fastened into the massive blocks of the walls; on all sides, wherever the eyes turned, might be seen floating and drifting hither and thither a cloud of beautiful ladies in rich, gold-embroidered garments, nets of pearls imprisoning their tresses, necklaces of rubies blazing upon their breasts, feather fans with ivory handles hanging from their wrists, veils of white laces caressing their cheeks; and joyous throngs of gallants with velvet sword-belts, brocaded jackets and silken trousers, morocco buskins, full-sleeved mantelets with pointed
