With a gravity which suits him well, he is seated at the head of a table scattered with maps and papers. Nor is he in countenance or bearing inferior to the famous chiefs and captains around him. His long hair, falling in locks upon his shoulders, is still auburn, though thin, and streaked with grey, his blue eyes are inscrutable, his features set and stern; altogether a countenance which offers an unsolved problem to posterity, as did his character, varying so greatly at different periods of his life. He is plainly dressed in a cloth mantle, clasped around his neck by a single jewel; on his breast shines a silver cross, as for one engaged in a crusade against the infidels, and his body is encased in steel. The Infante Juan is at his side. Isabel has borne him several children, but this is the only son, a delicate-complexioned boy, with thin, aquiline features like his mother’s, altogether too frail for the rough campaigns in which he accompanies his father, and singularly out of place among the hidalgos, who are ranged according to their military rank around the table. At the king’s right hand is Ponce de Leon, Marqués de Cadiz, a great southern noble, almost as powerful as himself; on the left is the Duque de Medina Sidonia, equal almost in townships, castles, and fortresses to a sovereign, hailing from the south also. Both have performed prodigies of valour in the war. The reckless giant called Hernado de Pulgar sits lower--he who rode into the city of Granada at dead of night, and fixed on the door of the great mosque a tablet with the letters, _Ave Maria_, then departed as he had come before the Moors had time to seize him; the famous Gonsalvo de Cordoba, to become El Gran Capitan, and Viceroy of Naples, in this war flashing his maiden sword, already marked by nature in features and bearing as a master of men; the Conde de Tendilla, hero of Alcala; El Rey and Cabra, and many others as illustrious as the chiefs of Troy, but with no Homer to celebrate their deeds. Now the king speaks, first rising and uncovering to salute the Council, then reseating himself, and replacing his velvet bonnet upon his head, in all of which formalities the Council follow him in profound silence. “My lords,” are his words, “we are met here to decide as to the course of the campaign. Spite of individual acts of courage, Granada is unconquered. The walls are strong, and Boabdil’s general, Mousa, a leader of prudence and renown, vaunts that he will drive us out by avoiding fixed battles, and harassing our armies by perpetual skirmishes in the mountains, and ambushes on the plain. Noble captains and companions, this cannot thus continue; it is a blot on our arms.” Loud sounds of assent come from all round the table. Several of the great soldiers rise to reply, but, seeing that Ferdinand is prepared to continue, sit down and listen with reverential attention.