“I care not,” is the retort, shaking off the king’s hand, who, weaker than he deems himself, falls back muttering curses. “Your Grace has questioned me, I tell the truth. Don Enrique holds Toledo, the Lady Blanche is with him. Here is Don Garcia, ask him, if you doubt me. The queen, your mother, had no power to march troops against the Conde de Trastamare while you lay between life and death.” As he speaks, a sullen fury falls on the king. He sits perfectly motionless, his head pressed between his hands. “Call hither the Lady Padilla,” he says, in a voice so veiled it is scarcely audible. So quickly did her presence answer the summons it would seem as though she had been hiding near at hand. Her dark face shone out against the glitter of the many-hued hall. A long white robe falls to her feet, and she waits until the king addresses her. “In my sickness, Maria,” says Don Pedro, in a voice that still sounds unfamiliar to those around (Maria starts with an alarmed glance and looks at him), “you tended me night and day. Why were you silent on what touches me so nearly as the advance of Enrique upon Toledo and the escape of the queen?” “Because,” answers Maria, her eyes softening into a glance of ineffable love, “your life was dearer to me than all else. What did it matter if the Bastard reigned from the Pyrenees to the Pillars of Hercules if my Pedro died?” “There spoke the true woman!” exclaims the king. “Now, by my faith, you have conquered me, Maria, quite.” Then taking her hand, he draws her down upon the seat beside him. “Listen to me, Juan and Garcia,” turning to them, “you know me, I am _El Rey Justiciar_. In evidence of the love I bear this lady, and to put to rest once for all any questions which might arise by reason of the many traitors around me, at my death, I declare as successor to the throne of Castile, the Infante Alonso, Maria de Padilla’s son. At the earliest moment our ministers shall ratify the act, and call on my nobles to do homage to him as my heir. Are you satisfied now, sweet one? This will seal the bond,” and he draws her face, glowing with triumph, towards his own, and impresses a kiss on her warm lips. “And Blanche?” whispers Maria in an undertone, but not so low but that both Don Juan and her brother hear. [Illustration: ON THE DARRO. From an etching by Samuel Colman.] “Ah, Maria, will you still keep me to my bargain?” answers Don Pedro, with a sigh. “Yes,” quickly responds Maria, “I do, especially now that she is at large.” “At large? I cannot believe it. But, Maria--Blanche, divorced and dishonoured, cannot harm you. I shall never set eyes on her again.” “Yes, sire, but as long as she lives, she will raise up France against you.” “And if she dies, do you think they will let me bide?” “My sister,” puts in Don Garcia, “leave the matter to the judgment of the king. Urge him no more, I pray you, at a moment he has, by such a signal act of favour, named your child successor to the throne.”