“I cannot help it,” answers Isabel. “No duty to my brother stands in the way. When the confederate lords, at Alfonso’s death, after his dethronement at Avila, offered me the throne, you know, Beatrix, that I refused it. While he lives, he is my king and my brother. Afterwards, the succession is mine, and I shall defend it to the death. Even if the Infante does not please me, if he agrees to my conditions I will marry him all the same. It is not for love I call him.” “Not please your highness!” said Beatrix, not altogether so high-minded as her mistress, and looking at the matter in a more mundane light as she vividly recalls the image of the man she loves and is soon to marry, one of the stoutest partisans of Isabel. “I can understand hating such a fellow as the Master of Calatrava. I myself gave your Highness a dagger, rather than you should wed him; and would have seen you use it, too, with joy. But, Holy Virgin! Why not Ferdinand? He brings Aragon with him, and is reputed as a handsome prince, prudent and brave; then coming like a knight-errant to rescue his princess at midnight, disguised, a fugitive, in danger of his life.” Isabel’s blue eyes fixed themselves on Beatrix, with a curious expression. “The marriages of princes are not for love, _amiga_. It is possible that the Infante of Aragon may not consent to my conditions.” “Oh! you will forget all that when you meet,” cries Beatrix, provoked by her coldness, so different to her own feelings. “You will have a greater power over him than protocols or decrees.” As she spoke, the evening bells rang out sweetly from the towers of San Pablo. Already the grey pigeons had left their perch on the window-sill, and the twilight had darkened the ancient tapestry on the walls, leaving the outline of the two youthful figures defined against the light. “He cannot be far from Valladolid now,” said Beatrix, listening to the bells, “if he left Dueñas as was agreed.” Isabel turned pale and sighed. There was a languid action of her hands that told of some internal struggle ill repressed, as the long fingers fell helplessly upon her brocaded robe. After all she was but sixteen. She was playing the part of a royal heroine, but she could not altogether silence the workings of her young heart. Spite of the great soul within her, what she was about to do came over her with dread. Not even her high resolve could reconcile her to that risk of marrying a man repugnant to her. Besides, her serious nature was wanting in that romantic element which, with another girl, would invest the unknown prince with every charm, because he was to appear in an _auréole_ of mystery.