“I,” answers the pilgrim, with a singular decision. “I know that the death of the Conde is near!” “By whose hand?” demands the king, greatly excited. (Did this holy person know of some secret conspiracy of Doña Teresa to assassinate him, and had he come to reveal it?) “By mine,” whispers the pilgrim, mysteriously approaching him. “I have about me a subtle poison, the venom of snakes, given me by a Berber. It never fails; silently it extinguishes life. But it must be properly administered. Lead me to the prison--I will answer for the rest.” Even Don Sancho is staggered by the proposal of this cold-blooded pilgrim, and replies with caution: “Should this prove true, I shall not be unmindful of the saint’s claims on me. But, holy pilgrim, much as I honour your design and wish you success, in these warlike times I must demand some sign to assure me of your truth.” “Signs shall not be wanting, O King,” answers the pilgrim, in whose voice an eager sweetness seems to penetrate. “The Holy Apostle has himself appeared to me in a vision and unfolded deep mysteries concerning Navarre and Leon. The time is not far off when Castile and Leon will be united under one crown, and that union will end the Mussulman rule in Spain.” “O great and holy seer!” ejaculates Sancho the Fat, folding his hands, greatly impressed by what appears the complete fulfilment of his utmost ambition, “much do I honour you. Disclose, if not bound by a vow, what is your name, that I may impart it to my mother, Doña Queen Teresa.” To this request the pilgrim pays no heed. “Perhaps you will tell me if the death of the Conde prefigures these events?” “By the aid of Santiago, yes,” is the answer. “Such is the prophecy I have to impart.” Now had Don Sancho been less eager to rid himself of Gonzales by every means, he would have noted the violent agitation which shook the pilgrim’s frame. To poison a sovereign in prison--and a kinsman to boot--is a serious undertaking. Already the words of refusal are on Sancho’s lips when the curtains of the apartment fly open and Doña Teresa rushes in. “What is this I hear?” cries this imperious woman, who has been listening outside, her cruel face darkened by anger. “Shame on your cowardice, Don Sancho; you are no son of mine. What! you would refuse the proposal of this worthy pilgrim? I understand and applaud him. To kill the Conde de Castila is a work of mercy, for by his death the lives of thousands will be spared on the battle-field.” In the presence of his mother the fat king becomes mute. Against his better judgment he consents to the death of the Conde. * * * * *