Again we come upon Fernan in prison, a very unlikely place for so brilliant a cavalier, but, alas! adverse destiny has again doomed him to pass many months in this second dungeon--much more rough and dismal than the prison of Narbonne, as the old city of Leon, with its Gothic traditions, was more uncouth and uncivilised than the capital of Navarre. “Who are you?” he asks in great surprise as a pilgrim is ushered in. “Nor need I ask; coming from the vile king you can only be a foe.” “I am your friend,” answers a voice that strikes like music on his ear, “your best, your only friend, my lord and husband,” and as the disguise falls to the ground the faithful Infanta stands before her lord. We will pass over their transports. A decent veil must conceal the mysteries of married life. Naturally the first question he asked was how she came there? Together they laughed while she explained the murderous purpose of the wicked queen. “But time speeds,” she says, tearing herself from his arms. “You must fly. The courage of our good Castilians is damped by your long absence. Not a moment must be lost.” “What! in broad daylight?” asks he. “Is it so easy a thing to go?” and he gives a bitter laugh. “No, love, most difficult, but we must change our clothes! I am you, and you are me. In that bed,” pointing to a straw pallet, “I stretch myself to die. I have swallowed the poison, and you, my noble husband, in the pilgrim’s dress, speed to Burgos. Once under the gateway, you are safe. Oh! greet them well, my dear ones,” and, spite of herself, as she thinks of her child, silent tears gather in her eyes. “But, Ava,” he exclaims, “greatly as I honour your courage, your fortitude, your skill, ask me not to return to Castile by such means. My sweet wife, the stars in their courses must have willed that I should die; leave me to my fate.” “Never!” cries the valiant woman. “Here,” and she plunges her hand into her bosom, “is the poison. If you do not fly, I will swallow it before your eyes.” A gesture of horror is his reply. “Besides,” she continues, her face lighting up. “What have I to fear? Danger to my life there is none! You cannot imagine my own aunt would murder me! Away, away, or some fatal accident may hinder!” * * * * * Meanwhile, what pen shall paint the anxiety of the king? How minute by minute he pictured each detail of the agonies of the expiring Conde. Truly the possession of Castile seemed to his guilty mind at that moment too small a boon to compensate for the throes of his guilty conscience. Had such tortures continued, Sancho would never have come down to posterity with the surname of “the Fat,” but rather have melted into a shadow in the land of dreams! At last, unable any longer to bear such suspense, he called a page, and commanded that the pilgrim should be brought before him. “He is gone,” replies one of the officers of the prison, who has presented himself to reply.