Instead of the curly head of poor yielding Blanche, with her Gallic vivacity and childlike eyes full of tenderness to all she loves, this one has a natural dignity about her which at once imposes respect. She is calm and reserved in manners and has a measured speech. A missal is in her hand, for she is very devout, following the offices of the church religiously, and the Ave Maria has sounded; then she crosses herself and turns to her companion, Doña Beatrix Bobadilla, who rises and kneels at her feet. Now taken together they are a serious pair. Beatrix, a little older than the Infanta, is already a strong-minded woman, destined to support her mistress throughout her long career; and the Infanta, carefully trained by her mother, the beloved Isabel, in the retirement of Arevalo, not far from Avila, is possessed of that power of inspiring others with the enthusiasm she herself feels for the noble mission which she is called on to perform. “It is a great risk. Infanta,” Doña Beatrix is saying, “and you are so quiet about it. I am so agitated, I cannot sit still.” Isabel blushes deeply. “How do you know, Beatrix, what I feel? A calm exterior does not always mean a quiet heart. Do you think I can be unmoved the first time I meet the prince I intend to marry, at night, in secret, at the risk of my freedom? Should my brother discover his presence in Castile----” “As to that, my princess,” says Beatrix, “the Archbishop of Toledo who brings him, is answerable. Every possible precaution has been taken in passing the frontier. He travels at night, disguised as a servant, tends the mules, and waits on his companions at table. Better Ferdinand of Aragon than those strangers of Portugal and Navarre, whom the king favours, to get you out of the way of the Beltraneja.” “Yes, Ferdinand,” says Isabel, and she closes her missal and leans back in her chair; “that has been my dream. I will never wed with a stranger. Castile and Aragon must be one. No longer the unnatural strife between these two states of the same blood, and God has chosen me as the means.” She raises her blue eyes, and a radiant look spreads over her fair face, on which the open forehead and brows are as finely moulded as on her mother’s. Already she has all the command of a sovereign about her, spite of her youthful looks. “But, Infanta, what will that villain Don Beltrano incite the king to do when he hears of this interview? They are in arms in the south, and troops throng the frontier. It is plain that they are alarmed at some news they have received. There is nothing in the world which could so much enrage the king as your affiancing with the Infante of Aragon.”