No one dared enter, and for three days and nights he lay there in darkness. CHAPTER X Don Pedro--Alcazar--The Queen-Mother--Maria de Padilla The Hall of the Ambassadors, literally a blaze of iris hues and gold, is crowned by a lofty dome, and sheeted with a Moorish mosaic of mother-of-pearl and crystal. Around range the medallions of the ancient Gothic kings, over four golden-barred balconies breaking the richness of the wall, dividing triply-grouped arches, light as dreams, resting on pillars of green and red porphyry, so tall and slender it seems as if a breath would shatter them. From an open portal is disclosed a palace garden flushed with roses, and bordered by blossoming orange-trees, set in large porcelain pots. Butterflies flutter round delicate fountains banked up with tropical plants exquisite in perfume, and long vistas of bowery walks exclude the sun. A warm and genial air beats in from without, and permeates around. Nor is the fairness of the earth less than the brightness of the sky--intensely blue, not a cloud visible; and although the Alcazar stands in the midst of a noisy city, the silence and solitude are complete. Everything in this apartment is disposed for the king. He is greatly changed. A mortal illness has seized him, and he has barely escaped with his life. As he moves feebly along the marble floor, he is supported on either side by Don Juan de Mañara and Garcia de Padilla, then sinks exhausted upon a pile of eastern cushions prepared for him on an _estrado_. Naturally the two favourites, who tend him with anxious care, hate each other with the deadly bitterness of rivals, ever on the watch to turn every word and action against each other; especially Garcia de Padilla, a coarse likeness of his beautiful sister, always on the lookout for his own interests, and ready to pander to the basest vices of the king. It would really seem as if the prayers and litanies offered up for Don Pedro’s life (especially by his Jewish subjects, whom he greatly favours) have been efficacious in saving his life. Pale and feeble as he now appears, the steely hardness of his blue eyes is even more remarkable than in health, and the harsh intonation of his voice comes with a strange vigour from one so weak. As he sinks exhausted on a divan, a waft of music comes from the _patio_ without, a twanging of guitars deftly handled, and the silver tone of viols, with the clapping of hands of the Nubian slaves who swarm in the palace; the music ever and anon broken by the soft tones of a lute, played with infinite skill by a Moorish captive, whose nimble fingers mark and accentuate the rhythm. “What do the fools mean?” demands Don Pedro, as burst after burst of music penetrates into the hall. “Rejoicing, my lord,” answers Garcia, “at your Highness’s happy recovery.”