His flag--a tower on a red ground--proudly floats over the city, and men-at-arms, bowmen, soldiers, knights, and that promiscuous rabble which follows a camp, pass and repass through the narrow streets, where, side by side with the rich fruits and products of the land are locksmiths and workers in steel blades as thin and fine as a needle, yet more fatal than an axe, the heavier scimitars and broadswords in common use, and hamps and chains and locks; painters who expose gaudy likenesses of saints and madonnas; moulders of Moorish _azulejo_ tiles, the deep rich colour lighting up the dark holes which serve for shops; skilled wood-carvers of roofs and spandrels, crests and medallions; workers in brass with forge and file; and carpenters with planks of wood and heaps of shavings--all these different trades piled pell-mell on each other. In hot weather an awning is stretched across the _calle_, where a big tree leans out, serving as a lounge for Asturian porters, ready to bear any weight, close to a blank wall, with an elaborate doorway sunk into the soil, and green with mildew, leading to a synagogue up a narrow alley. In front a _paseo_, or plaza, is planted with rows of trees, overhanging the gorge of the Tagus, and rough benches are set, on which two Jews are seated engaged in earnest talk. Although under the rule of Don Pedro the Jews are in such favour that it is said by his enemies he has adopted their faith, they still, from habit, wear their national dress, a long, loosely-fitting gabardine with a girdle, long yellow boots lined with fur, and a high, square cap of a peculiar cut. Such is the costume of the two men; the elder, Father Isaac, with the aquiline nose and piercing black eyes of his nation, his thin features ending in a long beard; the younger, Cornelius, of the same type, but ruddier and stouter, and with far less distinction in his coarse physiognomy. “By the God of Abraham, El Caballero Don Enrique shall rue it!” speaks this one in a louder tone, seeing that the plaza is utterly deserted for the street, the hum of which reaches them dimly, broken by the continual chiming of the bells from the cathedral close by. “His entrance into the city was a surprise. Without that renegade Ben Hassan’s help, he could not have kept his unruly troops together--already the Aragonese had threatened to go back. And now he is safe in the Alcazar, and refuses to meet the bond. ‘_He will pay when he is at Seville_,’ he says,--very fine!” “At Seville he will never be,” answers the elder Jew in a lower tone, a gleam of hatred lighting up his deep-set eyes, “at least, while Don Pedro lives. At no better interest can we place our gold than to maintain him who is the rightful king and the friend of Israel. Ben Hassan is a traitor, and deserves to die as a scapegoat for his people.”