So unexpected an outburst completely overset all the queen’s calculations. Was her influence so small for the great task she had undertaken? she asked herself, as she gazed in wonder at the virile expression which sat on the king’s chiselled features, and gave such unwonted energy to his words. She smiled, however, as she replied: “Aye, my liege, all this may be true, but why has Don Alvarez de Luna shown this great zeal for his king? Because, while he defended his cause he was forwarding that ambition for which he has sold his soul. The interests of Don Juan de Castile are his own. Believe me in this, my dear and honoured lord, though I risk your displeasure in saying so.” “Such indeed are the accusations of his enemies,” answered the king, already cooling down from his brief display of impetuosity; in fact, he was now turning over in a helpless confusion of ideas whether indeed the constable was in league with the devil, as Isabel represented, and if magic really gave him the extraordinary influence he exercised over him. “Surely you must allow, my queen, [Illustration: Portrait of Boabdil el Chico. The Generalife, Granada.] that it is rather Luna’s genius and courage which provoke the jealousy of my nobles?” “Fatal have been those qualities to the kingdom!” cried the queen, at once seizing on the advantage his hesitation afforded her. “The whole nation is alarmed. No one more than I,” she added, her voice deepening into a delicious whisper as a blush overspread her face. She paused, the colour spreading over throat and neck. “What am I, to resist this universal charmer,” she added, “an untutored girl, when the queen, your Highness’s first consort, is said to have yielded to his blandishments?” “That is a base calumny!” answered Don Juan, again galvanised into a momentary show of feeling. “I do not believe it; I never did. I had the word of the queen. Alvarez himself denied it on the sacraments. I pray you, Doña the Queen,” turning somewhat haughtily upon Isabel, whose fingers were playing with the pearls upon her neck, her eyes modestly turned down, “do not revive so painful a suspicion. The honour of a Queen of Castile is impregnable. It is treason to doubt it.” “It is because I am true to you, Juan, that I tremble. The dread of this diabolical man haunts me. He may cast a spell on me also.” Though her look was determined, she spoke in a soft voice, flashing a look on the king out of those dark orbs of hers which seemed to catch the rays of the outer sunshine and strike straight into his heart. Then she extended her hand with a smile so sweet in its dignity as altogether to melt his sensitive nature, always realising in her the heroine of his poetic dreams.