A master of the ceremonies, or Jefe, bearing an ivory wand, stands in the centre of the court directing the servants. His flat Castilian cap of a bright colour, and dark _manto_ lined with fur, sharp aquiline features and piercing eyes proclaim him a native-born Spaniard of the old type. “Is it that foreign palmer,” he mutters between his teeth, “arrived from Navarre, or that Gallic knight who flies the fleur-de-lis with such heavy armour and delicate forms of speech? I warrant me he is a hypocrite to the core, as he comes from the Frankish king. One or both, they have bewitched our master. The palmer, with his sandalled feet and cockle-shell, an ill-favoured fellow one scents a mile off, dirt being, I am told, a quality next to holiness--but I like it not, the odour of garlic is strong enough for me--is shut up with my lord in his private closet. Anyway, the king has encountered the foul fiend somewhere, that he is tempted to risk his crown. Now they have been singing a _laudamus_ in the chapel for the safe arrival of the French king, whom the devil confound as a stranger and an invader! Well-a-day! The Holy Virgin of Saragossa help us! We can die but once! Here, Poilo, Poilo!” he shouts at the top of his voice, to a rough, wolfish-looking dog which has precipitated itself with an angry growl and clenched teeth into the arcade. “Fie upon you for an ill-mannered brute. Leave the king’s guests alone.” Doffing his scarlet cap, the Jefe at once assumes the humble aspect of his condition, as two personages, evidently of importance, emerge from the arcade, taking no notice of his repeated low salutations or of the snarls of the dog which he now holds by a silver collar, as they walk up and down the court in eager conversation. “Was the like ever heard?” exclaims one of them, a tall figure of martial aspect, attired in a rich robe trimmed at neck and shoulder with miniver, and secured on the breast with a huge gold brooch. “Let Alonso forfeit his crown if he please,” is the answer, “but I will never consent to cut my own throat.” “Nor I, Favila,” replies the other, a younger man, who holds the office of Chamberlain, wearing a heavy gold chain about his neck, his slight figure set off by a coquettishness in the fashion of the time--a close-fitting tunic of dark green, with a hood attached reaching to his waist, and a plume fixed by a jewel in a small cap poised on one ear.