From this we know him as he was: regular aquiline features, with soft youthful lines, long waves of rippling curls fall on his shoulders, and a low pointed crown presses upon his smooth brow. One hand rests on the hilt of a sword, the other grasps a Gothic sceptre. The place where the bust is placed is called the _Calle del Candilejo_, in the middle of narrow alleys unaltered since the Moors. Now the story goes that in one of his midnight rambles, for he wandered about like the Caliph Haroun el Raschid, Don Pedro found himself in the _Calle del Candilejo_ (of the candle), where he ran up against a hidalgo, who turned and struck him. Some say that he was a noted duellist, with whom Don Pedro had long desired to measure swords; others that he did not run up against the king at all, but that Don Pedro purposely attacked him. Anyhow swords were drawn freely. Neither would let the other go with his life, and both would sell their own dearly. At last, by a cunning lunge, Don Pedro ripped up his adversary and laid him at his feet. Now, shortly before, the king had made a decree forbidding all fighting in the streets upon pain of death. What with love, revenge, jealousy, and robbery, so many citizens were killed that there were not enough left to fight. What was to be done? There lay his adversary dead, and as Don Pedro gazed down upon his face he remembered that, according to his own decree, he had condemned himself to death. While he was wiping the blood from his sword, an idea struck him and he began to laugh. No one had seen the fight, no one could identify him. What an excellent occasion this would be of showing the carelessness of the Alcaide. If the Alcaide had done his duty and put guards about, such a thing could not have happened. Further, if the Alcaide could not discover him as the living man, he, Don Pedro, would have the pleasure of wringing off his neck. Altogether he returned to the Alcazar in high good humour. The first thing he did next morning was to summon the Alcaide. “Sir Alcaide,” said he, leading him by the hand to a seat on his own divan, “I have called you to inquire whether any miscreant has dared to transgress my law against street-fighting. In these unsettled times it is needful that the king should be obeyed.” “My lord,” replied the Alcaide, not altogether reassured by the king’s manner, too gracious to be sincere, “I am not aware that any one has offended.” “Ha! say you so? Are you sure? For remember, if any fighting takes place within the city and the survivor escapes, I shall hold you responsible for the blood that is shed.” At this the Alcaide grew very grave. He was quite aware that Don Pedro would be as good as his word, and trembled lest some hidden motive was prompting him. Nor was he left long in doubt. Before he could reply a Moorish page entered, bearing a paper on a silver salver, which no sooner had the king glanced at, than, starting to his feet, he swore a big oath.