“How sweet is this solitude in your company,” he says, heaving a deep sigh of relief as he sinks back on the chair. “I would fain turn a few verses in honour of my beautiful consort, but the day is too hot.” Here he tries to conceal a yawn but does not quite succeed; then, looking round, “It is astonishing that for once we are left alone; but the constable has not interrupted us with affairs of state.” “Why do you permit these unseemly liberties, my lord?” asks the queen sharply. Don Juan does not reply, but kisses her jewelled hand, laying it caressingly on his own. What a solace to have to deal with this queenly creature instead of the imperious constable, always urging on him some imperative command, or to be plagued by those who call themselves “the friends of his dynasty,” constantly insisting with equal persistency on the necessity of his banishment! Between the two his life has become a burden, to say nothing of the freaks of his young son, the Prince of the Asturias (the first to bear that title), who passes his whole time in a succession of rebellions. “It is not for me, my _Reina_,” he answers at last, “to abuse the constable, I leave that to my son Henry. But for Luna, I should never have possessed the treasure of this little hand.” Again he passes his long white fingers over hers, turning the rings she wears to the light and examining them one by one, as though he would fain find a pretext for retaining them in his own. A cloud passes over the glowing face of the queen. She suddenly remembers that she was imposed on him by the Conde de Luna as a reason of state. This puts her in a rage whenever she thinks of it. “Do you imagine, my lord, that that recommends him to me?” she answers, in a tone which betrays her feelings. “How do I know that you do not still prefer the French Princess Fredegonde to me?” A blush and a faint denial is the reply, and a murmured assurance that such perfection as she possesses makes him the envy of all the sovereigns his neighbours. The timid Don Juan shrinks from any form of attack; he is so tormented that he scents trouble in the air. The queen sees her advantage, and continues: “Believe me, I, at least, love you, if you care for that. Too much so, indeed, to bear to see you so overshadowed as you are. Your son, too, is drawing away your subjects from you. A great sacrifice must be made or you will never reign.” “A sacrifice?” answers Don Juan vaguely. He affects not to understand her, but reddens with annoyance at this false note in the harmony of their interview.