And strange to say, after the lapse of five centuries, the stain is there on the marble pavement _still_, close under three clustered pillars of green porphyry, supporting a richly worked Moorish arch. But before Maria can reply, a shrill cry rises from the white pillars that makes the _patio_ ring, and an ancient dame hurries forward, and with her stick puts back the guards who stand around. With a horrified glance at the upturned face of the dead Grand Master, she turns upon the king: “What bloody work is this, Don Pedro? I have a right to ask, for I reared you both at my breast. Oh! my child, my child!” sinking down beside him on the ground, and tenderly gathering the dead form in her arms. “Oh, my Fadique, my little one. So much you were alike, the queen-mother only knew you from the crown embroidered on Pedro’s robe. Even the queen loved the boy.” Then with a piercing shriek she raises herself from the ground, and her sunken eyes travel round upon the group, first on the king, then on Maria de Padilla. “Let the hand that struck him be accursed!” “He was my enemy, and I killed him,” answers Don Pedro, but he did not chide her, nor question her right to speak. “It is that accursed woman!” and the nurse raises her bony fingers and points towards Maria as her tall figure disappears in the deep shadow of the arches. “May Satan take her! And that soon! She has falsely accused him. Oh, Pedro! I loved you as much as him. Now I curse you, you cruel king! By the same bloody death shall you also die. The witch!” shaking her fist towards the spot where Maria has vanished; “a thousand such as _she_ may be found in Spain, but who will replace the true brother that you have lost?” As she speaks, a strange fire shines in her dim eyes, and her wrinkled face is transfigured with a sudden light. The voice in which she speaks seems not her own, but strong and vigorous, as though a wave of youth had passed over her. “I have spoken,” and she fell prostrate on the body of Don Fadique as the captain of the guard drew his sword, as if to smite her, and his men made a circle round. “Ask the king if I shall die,” turning to Don Pedro, who has covered his face with his hands. “I care not, but let me lay him on my breast. Oh! child of my love, the youngest and the best!” “Harm her not, Ruy Gomez,” orders the king, “and let her go.” And in deep thought he turns away. In his general contempt for all mankind, the king held his nurse in great esteem. When he was sick or wounded she tended him, and in his darkest moods she could approach him when others fled. But for his promise to Maria de Padilla, he would never have slain a brother who came in peace, under his roof, and now another is to die likewise; he had given her his word. Thinking of all this his brow grew dark as he mounted the secret stair which led into his retiring-room, with the skeleton heads of the four unjust judges hung over the door.