Whether the Conde de Luna was really guilty of the crimes imputed to him will ever remain an historic problem. He offered no defence now or before. Either he was too conscious of his innocence, or too proud to justify himself. At length, pressed on all sides, the half-imbecile king signed the order for his arrest, glad at any price to rid himself of importunity. A body of troops under Zuñiga were secretly despatched to surround the castle of Portello, where he had remained since his accusation. All these preparations could not altogether escape the knowledge of Luna, but, with a fatality common to great ministers, he despised his enemies too much to take any measures against them. * * * * * Within a darkened chamber the constable sits in the castle of Portello; no other guards or alguazils man the walls but such as habitually attend on his person. The magnificence of his household has been greatly reduced, as if in deference to the accusations against him. Until lately the cynosure of all eyes, the dispenser of all honours at court and in the camp, he has come to lead a solitary life. Lost in deep thought he rests his head upon his hand, sitting at a table covered with piles of parchments and papers, under which lies a naked sword. The night is gathering around. All the noises of the little town have died out. The bells of the churches have long since been silent; the _couvre-feu_ has tolled; the sharp click of the _sereno’s_ metal stick has ceased to strike on the pavement, and the voices of some late revellers have died away in the night wind. Still the constable sits on. That the thoughts which so absorb him are painful the furrows upon his forehead show, and the deep sighs which occasionally escape him. At all times indifferent to the accessories of dress, now in the middle of life, the plainness of his attire presents a remarkable contrast to the splendour of the court. His mantle and vest are of black cloth of simplest fashion, and he wears none of those jewels which constitute the habitual insignia of rank. The beauty of his countenance is remarkable. Long black hair, bright and glossy, curls back from his lofty brow, his features aquiline and pointed, of the true Spanish type, give great expression to his eyes, of a somewhat mystic expression, and the deep olive of his skin brings into prominence the rich jet of his pointed beard and moustache. The lightness of his figure and his slender make, not only impart to him height, but make him appear much younger than he really is. Nor is there any indication about him as he sits so motionless at the table, under the light of a massive silver candelabra, of that supercilious arrogance which has so greatly incensed his enemies.