He had at first been callous to his fate. In the immediate expectation of a violent death, life and its interests had faded from his thoughts. The image of the Infanta was ever with him, but as a bright phantom from another world with whom he could have no concern, rather than as the reality of a mortal love. Was she true or false? _That_ lay in the mystery of the past. As a dying man he had no past. He forgave her, even if she were false. Whither he went she could not follow. He must die, and leave revenge to his people. Soon they will know the treachery of the king. His faithful subject, the seeming pilgrim, will ride straight to Burgos, call together the Cortes, and declare war. But little will that help him when he is dead! Alas! all fails! Day after day he waited for some sign from the friend who had risked his life to find him. None came. He was forgotten, and he longed to die! In the dead of night he had thrown himself on a rough couch of ox-hide, and, hiding his face in his hands, groaned heavily. At length a feverish sleep had come to his relief, when, starting up, it seemed that the silence was broken by a sound of footsteps. “Now, by the wounds of Christ, my hour is come,” he told himself. “King Garcia will take from me that life he dare not attempt by combat in the field,” and he rose up to meet death as became a man. The footsteps came nearer and nearer and now there is the dim glimmer of a light. “They come, they come; but how cautiously. Is it that the assassins would strike me while I sleep?” Plainer and plainer were the steps, and brighter and brighter shone the light which fell across the floor. Now they are at hand, close at the door. Deftly and noiselessly the heavy chains are loosed. The door opens. A figure, dim in the shadow, stands before him. He strains his eyes in the darkness. Great God! Can it be true? It is the Infanta! She is alone. “Ava, my princess!” cries Fernan, and such a transport of rapture possesses him the words will scarcely come, “you are not false,” and he clasps her to his heart. Then she explains to him how, following the counsel of the pilgrim knight whom he had sent to her, she bribed the Alcaide with all the jewels she possessed. “And could you, Don Conde,” says she, gazing up into his face from under the folds of the heavy mantilla which concealed her features, “could you doubt my honour and my faith? Out on the base thought! Shame on your weak love! I waited but the occasion, and it came.” “Oh! let me hear your voice,” sighs the love-sick Conde, “though it rain curses on me! Forgive my unworthy doubt, or that in aught I misjudged you. I am sure you pleaded for me. Have you softened the king’s heart?” “No, not a whit,” answers Ava, with a sigh. “His enmity but grows more dangerous as the time wears on for him to depart to Burgos to meet King Don Sancho and his mother.” “To Burgos, my capital?”