In a confused silence he listened. Attired in long robes of deepest mourning, which set off the luscious brilliance of her complexion, she looked the ideal embodiment of woe. Her large eyes were dull and veiled as she turned them imploringly on the king, her whole being expressed the most poignant grief. Isabel was perhaps the handsomest woman of her time, and, as such, bequeathed it to her great daughter, Isabella of Aragon. She was at least the most subtle. She knew that as long as Luna lived, the king might escape her at any moment. Impulsively she grasped both his hands, she laid her cheeks next to his. Thus they stood for awhile; his arms clasped around her in a fervid embrace. What beauty, what devotion was hers! Could he pain this transcendent creature? These tears which lay on her eyelids like roseate dew he could kiss off, but no further cause must be given her to shed them. “Oh, Juan!” she whispered, her words reaching his ears like ineffable sighs, “why will you spare the criminal whose death I desire? Why will you support a wretch whom every noble in your kingdom would see in his grave? Your very crown is in danger! Your son is in revolt! Your cousin, the Infante of Aragon, favours him; the King of Navarre----” At the detested name of Navarre and his cousin of Aragon, who were both, in this troubled and odious reign, continually conspiring against him, the king gave a great start. Such energy as he possessed suddenly came back to him. “If you could prove that, my _Reina!_” he cried, every feature in his face working with passion. “I can! I can!” she answered; “the proofs are in my possession.” Then, gently drawing him towards the table, on which lay the fatal document, she placed a pen in his hand. “Sign, Juan,” she said, “_for the sake of my unborn child!_” Even at that moment his hand trembled so violently that he could scarcely form the letters of his name. * * * * * The scaffold was erected in the Plaza Mayor, in the centre of the city of Valladolid, where so many _autos-da-fé_ came afterwards to be celebrated under Philip II. A large crucifix was placed in front of the stage, upon which was spread a carpet of black velvet. The block and axe were there, but partially concealed by the tall figure of the executioner, masked and robed in scarlet. From the moment he had received the intimation of his doom, the fortitude and composure of the constable inspired respect even among his enemies. With an unmoved countenance he met the high officers of state at the door of the apartment he occupied in the Casa de las Argollas, and listened to the sentence of death and the enumeration of the crimes which were laid to his charge. Not a word passed his lips. He might have been a statue of stone but for a sad, tranquil smile, and the grave courtesy of the salute with which he returned the reverences of the judges. * * * * *