“You speak well, Father Isaac,” is the rejoinder. “Think you that Don Pedro will ever forgive our tribe? His spies are everywhere; and he is sure to know, though _he_ now lies sick at Seville.” From long habits of caution, to this direct question the old Jew for awhile did not answer; then, with a cautious glance round to see that no one lurked among the trees, replied: “A trusty Hebrew is on the way to Seville, to offer the king the supplies he may require; also charged with rich presents of jewels, and a crown of fine gold to Maria de Padilla. Were _she_ queen, Israel would return to its ancient glory in the land.” “They say Blanche of Navarre has escaped, and is in sanctuary in the cathedral. Is this true, Father Isaac?” “I know not, for certain; but if she expects help from France, by the body of Moses, son Cornelius, before it comes Enrique will not be here.” “I understand the will of our nation is to expel him, Father Isaac; but have they the _power_?” [Illustration: The Hall of Justice, Alhambra.] “Gold, my son, gold is the axle on which turns the world. By this the humble Israelite is often stronger than kings. Our only danger is lest the destroying angel strike Don Pedro dead. While he lives, the protector of the Hebrews shall be richly furnished for his enterprise, and we of the tribe of Levi within this city will spread ducats broadcast to pave the way. Had it not been for that renegade Hassan (whom the Almighty consume in Gehenna), our conspiracy were already ripe.” “And do you think this great outlay of our hard-won substance needed?” asks the younger Jew, a hungry look in his eyes, like a dog robbed of his bone. “Father Isaac, Don Pedro is not sure. May not Samuel Levi have misreckoned? A man who turns against his own blood and dabbles with Moorish superstitions is little to be counted on.” “Impossible,” answers the elder man, his black eye lighting up with the fire of youth. “By the great Jehovah! let no such miscalculation mar our action. The oppression of ages on our nation has made us cowards. A craven race we are. We will--and we will not--if it costs us gold. Now our very existence in this land of Castile hangs on Don Pedro; Don Enrique hates us. The French will torture us and spoil us, as do the hunters for the soft fur that wraps the bosom of the hapless hare. Once let us have news from Samuel Levi that the king is recovered, and has marched from Seville upon Toledo, these hands of mine,” and he holds up his pointed, delicate fingers, “shall open to him a postern.” “There will be much bloodshed,” answers Cornelius, thoughtfully, “and our dwellings may be sacked.”