“What! Vivars murdered!” cried Don Juan, evincing genuine emotion at the news. “How did this come about? I know he is a violent opponent of the constable, but what grounds are there for suspicion that he is concerned in his death?” “None that I know of,” answered the bishop, “except public report, which is alien to the Conde de Luna.” “But I can give your Grace reasons,” cried a voice from within, “if you will listen to me, which you never do,” and the Prince of the Asturias stormed into the room. “Peace! Infante, or speak with more respect,” said the king, the whole equilibrium of his gentle character overset by this turbulent onslaught. Don Enrique was so violent and headstrong, that his father positively dreaded the sight of him when they met, which was not often. Not one jot, however, did this terrible son yield of his insolent bearing. “Respect to whom respect is due, my lord,” were his words, his young face crimson with rage and defiance. “I presume that this holy ecclesiastic (that is the word, though it is nought in this case) is imparting to you the news of the new crime of your favourite. He is ready at getting rid of his enemies; but this time it is done so boldly in the broad face of day the whole nation cries shame. Will your Grace create him to some new honour to reward him?” As he spoke, the prince looked so furious as he advanced close to his father that the bishop interposed, but in vain. “It is of no use,” he continued, fronting the king almost with menace, “to give you proofs of the guilt of the constable in this atrocious vengeance on an enemy; you would not believe me if I did. But I do not intend to be silent. I shall address the nation, which has already judged him for what he is.” All this time the king had stood silent, contemplating his son with an expression of contempt. He was used to his violence. “Whatever you say will be undutiful,” he replied at last, “and unfitting for a father’s ear to hear.” “Yes, if you call it so,” cried the prince, not at all impressed by this reproof, spoken with more gentleness than seemed possible. “Until you send that arch-impostor, Luna, to the scaffold, we shall never be friends.” “Then let us remain enemies,” replied the king with dignity; “I will do no man’s bidding.” But this forbearance only angered the prince all the more. “The traitor who sold victory over the Moors for a bribe in a basket of figs is then to be let off? Under the walls of Granada he did it, the villain!” “Be silent, Infante!” cried the king; “you know that story is a lie!”