Altogether he looks born to command men and to fascinate women. Skilled in every accomplishment of the age, fabulously brave, a type of manly beauty, no wonder that Mary of Aragon succumbed to his power and beauty, in contrast to the feebleness of her husband; nor that Isabel, her successor, believing him to exercise magic arts, shrinks from his contact. But the magic of which they accuse him is in the man himself. Luna is the magician, and his commanding intellect, as of a Titan among minnows, has brought his name down from a remote period as one of the most remarkable characters recorded in history. * * * * * The low oaken door within the keep in which the chamber of the constable is situated opens suddenly, and an aged _jefe_ stands before him; behind him is his page, Morales. Resenting any intrusion on his solitude, he looks up sharply, and his eyes fix themselves on them with a menacing expression. “How dare you enter uncalled for?” he asks in a stern voice, addressing his devoted servant, Gotor, whose white face and trembling limbs announce some extraordinary agitation. “Why are you shaking so, old man?” “Oh, my lord! my lord! Listen! The royal [Illustration: THE GATE OF BARCELONA. From an etching by Charles A. Platt.] troops have arrived after dark; they surround the town.” “Well! What of that?” “You are in danger, my dear master!” cries Gotor, clasping his hands and approaching nearer to the table at which Luna is seated. “You must instantly conceal yourself until you can escape. I have a disguise ready without.” “Escape!” cries the constable, rising from his chair. “Never! I have lived in danger of my life for the last twenty years. I care not for the petty plots of traitors whom I will soon hang up as high as Haman.” “But the king, my lord! The king--he has forsaken you. He sends these troops. I know it,” put in Morales, coming to the front in spite of the terror with which the constable inspires him. “Hearing the movement in the town, I have been down among the alguazils who accompany the troops. They say that their mission is to seize the High Constable and carry him to Valladolid a prisoner. Fly, my dear master! Let _us_ die for you!” More eager than Gotor, the tears stream from Morales’s eyes as he dares to advance and touch the Conde on the arm. “No,” answers Luna, shaking him off, and with a stately step turning to pace up and down the chamber. “It is false that Don Juan has himself sent for me. He may be foolish, weak, deceived; but he will never betray his faithful friend.” “For the love of God, believe me!” pleads Morales, again pressing on the Conde, no muscle of whose face had changed. “That my enemies are below I do not doubt,” he replies, “but that they are sent by the king, no voice but his own shall convince me.” “Then, my dear master, we must defend you. Call our slender garrison together, and man the walls with their crossbows.”