From under the glowing shadows of the golden portal, a band of armed men rush forth, who drag him forward through tapestried doorways to dimly gorgeous ante-chambers with deeply sunk cedar ceilings overhead, into suites of halls lined with painted panels and _azulejo_ tiles darkly resplendent in escutcheons of castle, lion, bar, tower, and that mysterious _nodo_ which clasps Aragon with Spain,--into the precincts of the great Patio de las Doncellas, so purely beautiful in the whiteness of its lacy arcades. There, upon the Caliph’s burnished throne, sits Don Pedro, a canopy of gold over his head and damascened draperies behind. A terrible frown knits his brow and his eyes are dilated with rage, but Don Fadique does not heed. Forcing back the guards, he flings himself upon his knees before him. “Brother! brother!” he cries, “what means this hostile array? I have come upon your word. Tell me that you have not deceived me!” “Stand off, bold traitor!” answers the king savagely, casting him from him. “Have you forgotten your perfidy at Narbonne? Do you think I did not know that, and all else? Were you fool enough to imagine that I loved you?” and as he speaks he breaks into one of those fiendish peals of laughter, ever so terrible a climax to his wrath. “Surely, if the Lady Blanche is your leman, you are ready to shed your blood for her sake?” Before this burst of passion the Grand Master stands as if turned to stone. “What!” continues Don Pedro, ascribing his silence to fear. “Does your heart fail you in my presence? If so it is well,” and he arises as if about to rush upon him. “Do with me as you list, brother!” answers the Grand Master, “but I swear to you, by this symbol of the living Christ"--and he raises the jewelled cross of his sword high in the air--“for me, the queen is as pure as when she left her mother. Let him who says other stand forth.” With that, tearing his mailed glove from his hand, he flings it upon the floor, the scales of the metal ringing on the marble. “Don Pedro of Castile, will you cross swords with me?” he asks, advancing to the foot of the throne where Don Pedro has seated himself, his eyes gleaming with fury. “By my faith!” and scorn is in Don Fadique’s voice, “you do well not to defend so vile a charge. Blood enough has flowed--my mother’s, my little brother’s, and now my own, whom you have lured here treacherously to slay. Oh! shame and disgrace of knighthood!” “Miscreant!” roars Don Pedro, wounded to the quick at this reproach. “Prepare to die! On earth your time is short, and, _por Dios!_ you deserve your fate, you smooth-faced hypocrite! Better to be an open foe like Enrique, than a caitiff conspirator! Out on you, you bastard! I will not cross swords with you!” Stung by his insolence, Don Fadique is rushing upon him, when Don Garcia de Padilla interposes from behind and holds him back.