Splendid preparations were now made for the wedding of Tirante and Carmesina. But while on his return to Constantinople after the conclusion of the treaty he received orders, at the distance of a day's journey from the city, to wait until the completion of those preparations before entering Constantinople. While walking on the banks of a river in conversation with the Kings of Ethiopia, Fez, and Sicily, he was seized with a deadly pleurisy, and, despite all the efforts of his attendants, expired shortly afterward. The Emperor and Princess, on learning of his demise, were unable to restrain their grief, and died on the day they heard of his death. We have at last encountered a romance which does not end happily. In what manner such a dénouement was received by the Spanish public we know not, but at least they cannot but have been struck by its originality. That Tirante the White was a popular favourite, however, is clear from the praise lavished upon it by Cervantes. "By her taking so many romances together," he says, "there fell one at the barber's feet, who had a mind to see what it was, and found it to be Tirante the White. 'God save me,' quoth the priest in a loud voice, 'is Tirante the White there? Give me him here, neighbour, for I shall find him a treasure of delight, and a mine of entertainment.'" He then advised the housewife to take it home and read it, "for though the author deserves to be sent to the gallows for writing so many foolish things seriously, yet in its way it is the best book in the world. Here the knights eat and sleep and die in their beds, and make their wills before their death, with several things which are wanting in all other books of this kind." Is not this the essence of the revolt against the unnatural absurdities which so often characterized romance, expressed succinctly by the man who headed the mutiny? CHAPTER VII: RODERIC, LAST OF THE GOTHS Last night I was a King of Spain--to-day no King am I. Last night fair castles held my train, to-night where shall I lie? Last night a hundred pages did serve me on the knee, To-night not one I call my own; not one pertains to me. Lockhart, Spanish Ballads