Her eyes have closed in a light slumber, for she is very weak. Now she opens them with a smile, and fixes them vaguely on the setting sun, streaming in through the narrow Gothic casements which open into the great court. Then a sudden look of anxiety comes into her face. “Hiya Marquesa,” she says, addressing her friend Beatrix, who has never left her since her illness, “what news of the king? Have despatches arrived from Don Gonsalvo de Cordoba at Naples? Where is Peter Martyr?” “Here, your Highness,” answers her secretary, entering at that moment with a bundle of papers in his hand. “A great victory has been gained by Gonsalvo on the Garigliano. The French are driven out of Naples.” “Ah! Is it so? I have ever esteemed him a hero. But the king! Where is he? When will he return?” A silence follows. The queen’s countenance falls. “His Highness was last heard of at Gerona,” answers Martyr, “with the army.” “War, always war!” says the queen with a deep sigh. “Once we rode out together in the field--I wonder if he misses me!” Here she paused. “Beatrix,” she continues, seizing her hand and wringing it in her own, “I see by your face that something is amiss; the king’s absence, what does it mean? My body is indeed weak, but my heart is strong. Conceal nothing from me.” “His Grace,” answered Beatrix, making a sign to Martyr not to speak, “is safe with the army at Perpignan.” “And where is the Princess Juana?” At the mention of her daughter’s name anxiety and distress are plainly visible on her face. “She has left the castle” (at these words Isabel grows deadly pale), “and she refuses to return unless she can leave at once to join the archduke in Flanders.” “Who attends her?” asks Isabel, speaking quickly. “No one. She escaped alone. But her suite has been sent from the castle.” “Now Heaven protect us!” cries the queen, greatly agitated. “Martyr, call to me here the Archbishop of Granada.” “My dearest mistress,” says Beatrix, kneeling beside her and tenderly encircling her with her arms, “these fancies of the Infanta will pass. She is madly in love with the archduke when she is with him.” “Alas! It is not returned,” interrupts the queen. “He only cares for the succession, not for her.” The arras was now raised, and the dignified figure of Talavera, Archbishop of Granada, stood before the queen. For years he had been her confessor, and to her death remained her devoted friend. Raising herself on her couch with difficulty, Isabel kissed the jewel which he wore in his episcopal ring, then sank back exhausted on the embroidered pillows at her back.