Nor can Don Fadique account for it. Growing impatient as the rain begins to fall, he looks about him on all sides. There is no preparation for the tournament of which the letter of Don Pedro spoke. No line of tents along the river bank with rich devices, or pinnacles of silken pavilions dressed with colours and flags breaking the long lines of the Huerta. The streets are silent and empty as the rain now pours down; the vast mosque stands isolated and solitary, veiled by rising mists. No eager crowd gathers round the Puerta del Sol or in the court of the Naranjos, as when festivals and ceremonies draw strangers to Seville. The howling of a dog alone breaks the silence. At length, with no outward sign, the portcullis is slowly raised, and Don Fadique, spurring his horse, gallops in, but rapidly the great panels sink again, shutting out all his train. As the clink of the iron bolt is heard falling into the staples, a shrill cry of agony rises in the air. The hand of the little page who followed him on foot has been severed from the wrist as he hung onto Don Fadique’s bridle, and lies upon the stones before him. Don Fadique is alone; no return is possible; his heart sinks within him at the sight, but he can neither help the poor page shut outside, nor liberate himself. It is too late. Within the Patio de la Monteria the shadows of the Moorish arches rise black in the darkness of the storm, all save the portal of Don Pedro, which blazes out tier upon tier up to the gilded dome. More and more astonished, Don Fadique dismounts and fastens his horse’s bridle to an iron hook in one of the pillars, and looks round, the glossy-skinned animal giving a whinny of delight as he passes his hand mechanically over its sleek neck. It is the last token of affection he is destined to receive! Suddenly a burst of shrill laughter from the long row of _miradores_ over the portal arouses him to a full sense of his danger. That he has been betrayed by his brother is certain. As a drowning man is said in an instant to review all his former life, so Don Fadique recalled the many warnings of evil which had come to him, renewed even at the gate of the Alcazar. Still his gallant heart did not fail, but when he saw above at the _mirador_ a dark-haired lady leaning out with lustrous eyes, a chill shot through his veins. He felt that his end was near. Then in the midst of the rattle of the storm, the roll of the thunder, and the quickly succeeding flashes of lightning, there arises a sudden uproar, the clash of weapons, and the heavy tread of mailed feet. Nor has Don Fadique long to wait to assure himself of the welcome Don Pedro has prepared for him.