They shut the door—my trusty score of friends were left behind; I would not hear their whispered fear, no harm was in my mind; I greeted Pedro, but he turned—I wot his look was cold; His brother from his knee he spurned—“Stand off, thou master bold. “Stand off, stand off, thou traitor strong!” ‘twas thus he saith to me, “Thy time on earth shall not be long—what brings thee to my knee? My lady craves a new year’s gift, and I will keep my word; Thy head methinks may serve the shift—good yeoman, draw thy sword—“ The master lay upon the floor, ere well that word was said, Then in a charger off they bore his pale and bloody head. They brought it to Padilla’s chair, they bowed them on the knee— “King Pedro greets thee, lady fair, his gift he sends to thee.” She gazed upon the master’s head, her scorn it could not scare, And cruel were the words she spoke, and proud her glances were. “Thou now shalt pay, thou traitor base, the debt of many a year, My dog shall lick that haughty face, no more that lip shall sneer.” She seized it by the clotted hair, and o’er the window flung: The mastiff smelt it in his lair, forth at her cry he sprung; The mastiff that had crouched so low, to lick the master’s hand, He tossed the morsel to and fro, and licked it on the sand. And ever as the mastiff tore, his bloody teeth were shown, With growl and snort he made his sport, and picked it to the bone! The baying of the beast was loud; and swiftly on the street There gathered round a gaping crowd to see the mastiff eat. Then out and spake King Pedro—“What governance is this? The rabble rout the gate without torment my dogs, I wiss.” Then out and spake King Pedro’s page—“It is the master’s head, The mastiff tears it in his rage, therewith they have him fed.” Then out and spake the ancient nurse, that nursed the brothers twain— “On thee, King Pedro, lies the curse; thy brother thou hast slain; A thousand harlots there may be within the realms of Spain, But where is she can give to thee thy brother back again?” Came darkness o’er King Pedro’s brow, when thus he heard her say; He sorely rued the accursed vow he had fulfilled that day; He passed unto his paramour, where on her couch she lay. Leaning from out her painted bower, to see the mastiff’s play. He drew her to a dungeon dark, a dungeon strong and deep; “My father’s son lies stiff and stark, and there are few to weep. Fadrique’s blood for vengeance calls, his cry is in mine ear; Thou art the cause, thou harlot false; in darkness lie thou here.”