More than any one else present, however, the royal lad Pelayo, for whom so romantic a future is in store, is personally interested in the punishment of Witica, the murderer of his father; yet the composure of his face and the carelessness of his attitude, as he leans against one of the columns that uphold the raftered roof, are as if he were but one among the many. Outwardly he betrays no consciousness of his great wrong. Death and torture are familiar to the Gothic mind, and, like the rest, he appears prepared to abide by the judgment of the king. The heavy hangings shrouding the southern entrance to the hall are drawn aside, and, with a rush of sunshine and scent of aromatic herbs and odorous flowers, Witica appears, led in by slaves, heavy chains clanking at his feet, and manacles binding his arms. Common woollen garments of a dark colour cling to his emaciated frame, and his long, unkempt hair streams down to his waist. So greatly is he changed that it is almost impossible to recognise the lineaments of the jubilant and gross-featured voluptuary in this thin, care-ravaged face. As he slowly approaches the throne upon which Roderich is seated, he stops abruptly. The rude guards on either side push him on, and weighted by the grasp of the fetters he falls helplessly forward on his knees. Thus he remains motionless. No friendly hand is outstretched to help him--the miserable king. Not a single eye in that assembly softens with a pitying glance. A wan, craven look comes over his face as he raises his eyes beseechingly to the superb young monarch who has taken his place--so miserable an object, that whatever have been his crimes it seems impossible he can now inspire anything but pity. But Don Roderich thinks otherwise; he contemplates the wretched figure before him with a stern glance. Then, turning to the assembled chiefs and addressing himself more especially to Julian, standing as sword-bearer at the right of the throne, he speaks in a hard, resonant voice: “In this man you behold the butcher of my father. To amuse his caprice, he put out his eyes and imprisoned him in the dungeon of this castle until, worn out by suffering, he died. My father,” he repeats, in a ringing voice, which sounds hollow in the vast bare hall, “the noble Theodofredo, whose only crime was being born near the throne.” As he speaks there is so cruel an echo in his voice, the miserable Witica shivers and cowers still lower on the floor. Never possessed of much intelligence it would seem as if the long imprisonment and certainty of death have deadened within him the little sense he has. Dragged from the darkness of a dungeon into the full light of day, before the varied pageant of a court once his own, his brain has become confused. A dreadful horror is all he feels. “What punishment,” continues Don Roderich, “think you, noble Goths, most revered archbishop, and brother chiefs, should be inflicted on him for this death, and all the evil he has wrought in Spain?”