“There is yet another pledge to be fulfilled,” said the king, addressing the archbishop, who, bold as he was, literally trembled under the clear [Illustration: THE PORT, QUAY, AND CATHEDRAL, MALAGA.] gaze fixed on him, as though he read his inmost thoughts. “At the banquet with which you regaled the court so lavishly, while I was kept without a _maravedi_, you remember a young singer, whose wrongs at the hands of his guardians you promised to redress. I am that unhappy youth, and by the wounds of Christ, I swear that you shall keep your word!” A dead silence followed. No one dared to speak, lest he might hasten the catastrophe all felt was impending. At a sign from the king, the curtains before the doors were withdrawn, and in a blaze of light the Alcaide of Burgos appeared in his furred cap and gown, on one side of him a priest arrayed as for a funeral mass, and on the other the headsman in a red robe, a gleaming axe resting on his shoulder. “Nothing now remains, my lords,” continued the king, “but to carry out the sentence you have passed on yourselves. Prepare for death, Regents of Castile; and you, executioner, stand forth! See that your instrument is in good order. We desire not to cause needless pain, nor that these guilty souls should go unshriven; therefore, holy father,” turning to the priest, “such respite as is required for confession shall be granted.” No sooner had these awful words passed the king’s lips, spoken with the air and bearing of a sovereign determined to be obeyed than the archbishop and the Marqués de Villena cast themselves before him on their knees. “Grant us but life, son of the noble Trastamare,” pleaded the archbishop, suddenly seizing the king’s hand, as, gazing earnestly into his face, he became aware of a certain yielding in his bearing as he contemplated the humiliation of those two great statesmen, for so many years masters of Castile. “Give us life at least to repent of our misdeeds.”