Entering from her bower chamber into the old hall of the castle of Navarre, where reigned an atmosphere of troubadours and song, he saw her taking her place at a banquet held in his honour. A very Queen of Hearts she seemed to him, blandly sweet, with tender eyes of heavenly blue, under the curve of faultless eyebrows, a little dimple in her cheek, the very home of love, and smiling lips, curved like Cupid’s bow. “By my faith!” muttered Fernan to himself, as he doffed his jewelled cap, and advanced to kiss her hand; “but she is fair enough to move St. Anthony himself. Methinks I have been most unjust in doubting the good faith of Doña Teresa in proposing to me so sweet a bride.” And the Infanta loved him; and her treacherous father, Garcia Sanchez, tempted by the prize to be attained, of half of the kingdom of Castile, by all means encouraged their frequent meetings in bower and hall, in hawking, falcon on wrist, when they rode together in the woods, or when the troubadours tuned their lyres to sing _cancioneros_ when the sea-winds were still. How can words tell of the raptures of the Conde? His greatest enemies had procured his greatest joy! He had only to stretch out his hand to clasp [Illustration: THE GATEWAY ON SITE OF ANCIENT PUERTA DE SERRANOS. (Valencia.)] a jewel without price. Tender delusions of youth! alas! why should fate shatter them? * * * * * One moonlight night they had wandered together on the battlements of the castle into a pleasaunce of ancient elms, interlacing in thick arches overhead; the dueña, who never left them, disposing of herself apart at a discreet distance. Below the sea lay calm and still, wrapped in deep shadow, save where wave followed wave, gently catching the moonbeams for an instant, then falling back into an endless rotation. “Oh, love, how fair is the night,” says the Infanta, with a happy sigh, casting her eyes round on earth and heaven. “Methinks I have nothing more to wish.” But Fernan answers not. His gaze is fixed on her; the pale tresses of her golden hair shining through the meshes of a jewelled veil, her eyes melting with fondness, the soft outline of her face and that adorable dimple--from the first sight of which he dates his present transports--intoxicate his sense, and forgetting that she is an Infanta, daughter of a king, in a moment of passion he clasps her in his arms. “See, sweetheart,” says he, still holding her in his embrace, “how the moonlight flickers on yonder trees.” “Yes,” is her answer. “Yet, did I not know we were safe, I could almost believe some one was watching behind the trees. Let us go back to the castle.” “I can see nothing but you,” he answers, looking down at her. “You are the very goddess of the night!” “But it is late,” she urges, rising to her feet; “if I stay longer I shall have bad dreams. Let us go.”