Don Guzman gave one glance around him, and then coolly said—
“Never before have I played in such noble company—but at least I shall not be without witnesses that once in my life I have beaten Don Lopez.”
And he turned to his game with a smile, but it was a smile of bitter sadness, as though he despised the triumph he had gained. As to the bishop, he kept firm grasp of the handle of the ax, muttering, “If I were sure that the duke and I could get out of this den of tigers, I would not be long breaking the heads of all three.”
A DISCOVERY.
If the three hours had passed but slowly in the prisoner’s cell, their flight had not been more rapid at the court of King Philip. The monarch had continued to play with his favorite, Don Ramirez de Biscay; and the nobles, obliged by the rules of etiquette to remain standing, and unable to leave under any pretext, appeared sinking under a fatigue, rendered still greater by the weight of their armor.
Don Tarrasez, with half-closed eyes, stood motionless, resembling one of those statues cased in iron, ornamenting Gothic halls. The young D’Ossuna, almost worn out with weariness and sorrow, was leaning against a marble pillar. And King Philip, pacing up and down with hasty steps, paused occasionally to listen for some distant noise. At one time he stopped to examine the hour-glass, at another, with that mingling of superstitious feeling apparently as inconsistent with some points of his character as it was with that of Louis the Eleventh, he knelt before an image of the Virgin, placed on a pedestal of porphyry brought from the ruins of the Alhambra—and implored her to pardon him for the bloody deed that was now accomplishing. All was as silent as in the palace of Azrael, the Angel of Death; for no one, however high or exalted his rank, dared to speak without the permission of his sovereign. No sooner had the last grain of sand announced that the fatal hour had arrived, than the king joyfully exclaimed—
“The traitor’s hour has come!”
A low murmur ran through the assembly.
“The time has expired,” replied Philip; “and with it, Count de Biscay, your enemy is no more. He has fallen like the leaves of the olive-tree before the blast.”
“My enemy, sire?” exclaimed Don Ramirez, affecting surprise.