Now the trumpets sounded their shrill note, the clarion answered, and the procession marched forward. First the parti-coloured herald with his gay cap and tabard, rehearsing in a loud voice the reasons for which the High Constable was to suffer. A body of men-at-arms followed in two ranks, marching to the sound of muffled drums. The constable himself next, mounted on a mule. He wore high-heeled shoes with diamond buckles and an ample Castilian mantle reaching to his chin. By his side rode his confessor. The multitude which thronged the city to see this extraordinary sight was immense; not only Valladolid and Burgos, but from all the burghs and villages about for fifty miles. As the people gazed open-eyed at the fall of the Master of Castile, much as he was detested in life, murmurs of compassion were heard on every side, as, with an air of dignified leisure, he dismounted, and slowly ascended the steps of the scaffold. Arrived at the summit, he stood for a moment lost in thought as his eyes ranged over the sea of faces uplifted to his, surging like the troubled action of the waves. The stone colonnade which still surrounds the Plaza was crammed; in every window, terrace, _mirador_, and balcony, the eager countenances of massed-up spectators seemed to clothe the walls. Raising his plumed hat for a moment from his head, he scanned the multitude come to see him die. In front of the scaffold stood his enemy, Don Enrique, Infante of Aragon, whose efforts to depose Don Juan he had for years successfully combated. Around him gathered a group of nobles of the queen’s party. “Tell my master and yours, Don Juan the the king,” he said, speaking in a clear voice, addressing himself to the Infante, “that he may find the crown fit better on his brow now that I am gone, who made it too heavy for him.” Then turning to his page Morales, convulsed with grief, who had followed him to the scaffold, bearing on his arm, neatly folded, a scarlet cloak to cover his body after decapitation, his lofty bearing softened and his voice trembled as he spoke: “Alas! my poor boy, you, who owe me nothing, weep for me; and my master the king, who owes me so much gratitude, desires nothing but my death!” He then took off his hat, which he handed to Morales, together with a ring, placing it on his finger. His face was perfectly serene and his clustering curls hung upon his broad shoulders, scented and tended as carefully as heretofore. Standing in front of the platform, the crimson figure of the executioner backing him, the whole multitude was moved to pity, and notable sounds of lamentation rent the air.