Nothing can be worse than the situation. It stands absolutely in a hole. But it is within that this shrine of marble is wonderful. The clustered pillars of five vast naves, a marble space in the centre as wide and long as a hippodrome, the solid bulk of the _retablo_ a blaze of gold, separating the high altar from the nave; the sculptured semi-circle of the absis broken by chapels, niches, shrines, and tombs sunk in the deepness of shadow, where kings and archbishops repose; the superb pavement in marble, lapis lazuli, porphyry, and agate lighting up the floor, rare pictures on the walls, statues, carvings, and huge bronze doors leading into the choir, the double pulpits coated with gold, the glorious screen in _alto relievo_, and the superbly painted windows casting down warm shadows as of ruby, emerald, and sapphire on the floor. Deeper and deeper fall the shadows, and more and more solemn gathers the half-light, save for a glimmer far in the distance where a dim lamp burns before an altar of most delicate tracery flanked by two lofty windows, the front shut in by a brazen rail, while a lacelike shroud of exquisite stonework rises behind, reaching as with giant leaps to the heavily groined roof. In the farthest corner, crouching beside the altar, sits Blanche, her feet resting on an embroidered cope, brought by the pitying priests, Claire close beside her. Both are so still in the waves of gloom outside, that they might pass for statues on a tomb, pressed close together, habited in hood and cape as Carmelites. “I shall die,” whispers Blanche, “if no one comes before night,” and a cold shudder passes over her. “Dear Blanche, keep a good heart, after all we have gone through. Here at least we are safe. I wish to heaven,” adds Claire, “_he_ were, who has staked his life to bring us here.” “Ah, Claire, you are in love, and that comforts you. I have no one to care for me since I parted with Fadique, God grant that he is saved. But, Claire, are you quite sure that the priest understood he was to inform the Conde de Trastamare that I am here?” “Yes,” is the answer; “what a miracle it was that he is in possession of Toledo. Had it been Don Pedro, he would have broken the sanctuary as sure as fate.” “I should like to see this Enrique de Trastamare,” whispers Blanche, her white face lighting up for an instant at the thought of a possible protector. “I am sure he is good, because he fights against that horrible monster Pedro. After all, I am a queen; the King of France will rescue me. You remember the Governor of Talavera said the French were marching on Toledo, and that was why we were to come here. For my part I would have rather gone in quite another direction, towards Navarre. Ah! how I tremble when I think of it all, and that mule that kicked me off, just as we were leaving the castle by the narrow path! I wonder I was not killed; I am sure I am bruised!”