“What rapture to be thus loved!” he murmured. “Can I deny this exquisite creature anything she desires?” No one, he told himself, had ever been so sweet as she. Ought he not to guard her from any chance of peril? Might not the accusation she had recalled be true? He had never dared to examine too closely the relations between the constable and the late Queen Maria de Aragon. How different was Isabel! Her thoughts were all for him. What ought he to do? An abyss of unfathomable doubt engulfed him. Was Luna indeed an agent of the Evil One as she said, or was he his devoted servant and friend? And all the time these clashing thoughts were chasing each other through his weary brain, Isabel, by a caressing movement, was drawing closer and closer to him as he listened to the soft tones of her voice, so different to the authoritative accents of the constable. “Fie, fie, my dear lord,” she was saying, “is it meet that he make of you but a painted image? A phantom in the state? With sorrow and shame your nobles behold it. Can you wonder that the prince hates him? Resolve, by one bold act, to rid yourself of him for ever. Banish him, imprison him, execute him, so that you reign.” The sound of her words still lingered like music in the warm air, when a silver bell sounded in the ante-room, the tapestry before the door was withdrawn, and a page entered, making a profound obeisance. “Don Juan the King,” he said, “the most revered the Bishop of Avila waits without on urgent business of state. He comes as the messenger of the Conde de Luna; he has already conferred with the secretary, Don Diego de Bavena.” At this announcement, the queen hastily left her seat, bowed low to Don Juan, who kissed her hand with the utmost ceremony and led her to the door, where she again saluted him before joining her _dueñas_-in-waiting. But the words had been spoken, the impression made, and, however Isabel might resent the intrusion of the bishop, she had almost persuaded the king that the days of the haughty favourite were numbered. * * * * * Whatever were the faults or the misdeeds of the House of Trastamare, the courtesy of their manners was beyond dispute. Nothing could have been more inopportune than the entrance of the Bishop of Avila, but Don Juan received him in so royal a fashion he could not for a moment have imagined he was not welcome. “To what happy chance do I owe your presence?” asked the king. “Nothing auspicious brings me to your Highness,” was the reply, “in place of the High Constable.” “Is he not coming?” asked the king quickly, a look of relief spreading over his face. “He is not; a most base calumny prevents him. The Conde de Luna is accused of having caused the assassination of Don Alfonso de Vivars. Until his sovereign publicly justifies him, he prefers to retire to his castle of Portello.”