“Recovery--_por Dios!_ and it was time, unless I was to chant the rest of my life in purgatory. Is it true that, counting on the report of my death, the bastard Enrique has had himself crowned at Toledo, and struts at the Alcazar like any peacock? Can it be possible my brain is weak? or was it a dream in my delirium?” A silence follows, which neither the supple Garcia nor the politic Don Juan cares to break. Absolute quiet has been enjoined. Yet it is as much as their heads are worth not to reply. “If you do not find your tongues quickly, my friends, the axe shall silence them for ever. Ho! slave,” and with a loud sound, he strikes with a handle of iron on a plate of steel. In an instant the music ceases, and a gigantic Nubian, perfectly unclothed, appears armed with a marble-hilted javelin. Something in the sudden apparition of this grotesque figure, as if the earth had opened to cast him forth, so strikes the fancy of the king that he laughs aloud. “Begone, Hassan,” he says, “I did but jest; the necks of my loving companions are precious. But, _amigos mios_, I counsel you, trifle not with me. I am patient at no time, and now that my reason is scarcely settled from the disturbance it has had, I am dangerous to play with.” “Play with!” replies Don Juan, who cares little for threats of any kind. “God forbid! Your Grace knows I fear nought. You shall judge of my faithfulness, for I am here ready to answer all you please to ask.” “How _here_?” asks Don Pedro, reddening with a sudden flush. “Where else should you be?” “Why, with the new king at Toledo,” promptly answers Mañara, nettled at the mention of the axe. “The new king, who is crowned by right and authority of the Holy Father, Urban V.; Don Pedro of Castile being legally and civilly defunct, by reason of the ban of excommunication pronounced against him, it is the fashion now to cry, ‘Long live _El Rey Enrique el Caballero_.’ Perhaps your Grace did not know that you were already dead?” As he speaks an ashy pallor spreads over the king’s face, and out of his bloodless lips the words come thickly: “So, so, at Toledo!” he gasps, clenching his hands in the cushions at his head. “Crowned? My brain turns. It was not a dream?” “By my faith, no, an army is encamped outside on the Tagus, a garrison within. The troops a little mixed in nationality it is true, but the promise of the support of the great companies under Du Guesclin, to be sent to restore the Lady Blanche----” “Restore the Lady Blanche? Why, she is locked up in the castle of Talavera, out of which no woman ever came alive. It is you, Don Juan, who play the fool!” exclaims Pedro, raising himself up, and seizing him savagely by the shoulder. “By the living Christ! your life is in my hand.”