“I am sure I hear footsteps!” cries Blanche, starting back and standing upright listening--“What will Claire say? Am I indeed such a sinner?” “Claire? By Santiago! what has she to do with us? Claire? Ah! do not look at me so, Blanche, or you will break my heart.” “Oh, that mine was broken too, and I were dead!” she sobs. “Then let us die together,” replies Don Fadique. They are standing hand in hand, backed by the high Gothic casement. The fretted frame, filled with devices, crowns, and coats of arms, casts a pale reflex on them. The sun is setting behind the castellated towers of San Pablo, opposite, and soft fragrant shadows gather in the chamber. Both in their hearts are longing that this moment may last for ever. Deeper and deeper the shadows fell, engulfing the two young figures in its gloom, save where a shaft of vivid light fell upon them like a sword, the point turned towards them. “My love,” murmurs Don Fadique, passionately, “do you hear me?” As Blanche moved in response, a sudden light was in her eyes that had never been there before--a Moorish scarf Claire had placed around her fell from her waist. “This shall be my talisman,” cries Don Fadique, stooping to pick it up, “the token of your love, and my safeguard in battle. You will not refuse me?” “Oh! hide it, hide it,” whispers Blanche under her breath. “Claire may come in and miss it.” Then there was a dead silence which neither of them broke. Suddenly, with a crash like thunder, the clatter of horses’ feet rises up from the _patio_; the clang of armed men is in the air, the roll of cumbrous equipages, and the shrill voice of drums and clarions. Now a single horseman rides in and challenges the guard. Then there is the sound of marching of many feet and the far-off blare of trumpets. Blanche rose to her feet, speechless with terror. Was the king already there? Where could Claire be? Then comes the echo of many steps in the antechamber, and Claire rushes in through the arras as Don Fadique disappears by a door on the other side. Following Claire appears a tall and stately _jefe_, holding a white wand of office, with many crosses and decorations on his breast, and a high plumed hat in his hand, which he doffs, bowing low. “Madam, the Queen,” says he, in a sonorous voice, again inclining himself to the ground, “it is my duty to apprise your Majesty that the king is now passing the drawbridge outside the city. A royal page bears his greeting to your Grace.” “Claire, oh, Claire!” sighs Blanche, casting herself into her arms. “Oh! _why did you leave me?_” CHAPTER V Marriage at Valladolid The ancient city of Valladolid lies on low ground and is watered by the Pisuerga, a broad river for this waterless land. Although so far in the north, Valladolid was at this time considered the official capital of Castile, and therefore it was there that Blanche had come to meet her much dreaded bridegroom.