“But I _am_ queen,” she answers, looking up at him, as the colour returns slowly to her cheeks. “YOUR queen. There is no other. Why did you listen to Albuquerque and put that woman between us?” “Ah! sweet love, why?” sighs the love-sick Pedro, his whole soul melting as he gazes at the enchantress. Who is like her? Who? By heaven, this black-browed Andalusian would put the pale daughters of the north to shame, were she but a beggar! “Yes, Maria, I hate Blanche of Bourbon as much as you! She shrank from me with loathing. Not a smile, not a word--all were for Fadique, the treacherous boy. _Por Dios!_ he shall be stripped of his honours, and your brother Garcia shall take his place as Grand Master of Santiago. By this time Fadique is on his way to Portugal. I have rooted out the viper, and scorned the royal _demoiselle_. Mark that, Maria, _scorned her_, and left her. Your voice called me and I am here. And I am glad of it. Come what may. Let Du Guesclin and the French avenge her. Kings, queens, and powers--though the whole world stands before me, I will have none of her, I have sworn it on the Gospel.” And in a passion of newly awakened love, he strains Maria to him in a wild embrace. “But how can I trust you,” she whispers, her eyes meeting his. “You have deceived me once, you may again.” “But you are not the only one, Maria. I am also deceived, cajoled. _Por Dios!_ my vengeance shall fall on more than her. Don Fadique--” He paused. “Away with these half-words,” cries Maria, the feeling of power coming to her again as, eagerly seizing the king’s hands, she draws him to her and brings her glowing face close to his. “What of Fadique? How could you trust him?” “Yes,” answers Pedro slowly. “The Judas! It was Albuquerque who insisted on sending him as my proxy, ‘devoted to _me_,’ he said. Ha! ha!” and he burst into a harsh laugh. “He met her at Narbonne, and passed the nuptial ring on her finger. Let God judge the hand that smites her, for smitten she shall be for her treason, and that speedily.” “What?” cried Maria, her dark eyes kindling with light. “Do you really mean----?” “I mean what I say,” answers the king, sullenly. “The Queen of Castile and Leon is not as a trump in a hand of cards to be passed from brother to brother. It is a foul crime on my throne and person. At Valladolid I saw it at a glance. So I took horse, and I am here. At least one woman is true to me, and that is you, Maria.” And again he clasps her to his breast. “Lie there, sweetheart, it is your home.” “And Don Fadique?” asks Maria, her face hardening as she remembers how the handsome Grand Master has always treated her with scant courtesy. “Is he long to taste the bliss provided for him? Methinks that the sons of Eleanor de Guzman live but to play tricks upon your Grace.”