Then steadily advancing footsteps are heard approaching, the heavy tread as of a company of armed men whose mailed feet fall heavy on the marble pavement. With beating hearts Blanche and Claire start to their feet to await their doom. The glare of many torches is thrown forward, calling up fantastic shapes; an armed figure emerges, clearly defined against the light, a long Castilian sword at his side, and a mailed hand is stretched forward. “Welcome to Toledo, madam,” says the voice of Enrique de Trastamare. “Never could we have esteemed ourselves more happy in the fortune of war than by your presence.” As he speaks Blanche throws herself at his feet; her veil falls back. She weeps, but her tears do not mar the fresh beauty of her face. “Save me, my lord!” she cries. “Save me, for the love of God.” She clasps her hands, as if addressing a deity. Her sobs drown her voice, which still murmurs, “Save me! Save me!” Enrique’s eyes fill with tears. He stoops and raises her, imprinting on her cheek a royal kiss of welcome. “You will not betray me to Don Pedro?” she whispers, seizing his mailed hand. “Betray you!” he answers, greatly moved. “Rather die! If I am a crowned king, I am no less a belted knight. There is no right of chivalry more precious than the succour of distress, especially that of a royal lady allied to us by marriage. Our entrance into the city of Toledo was by surprise; there are here no noble ladies to form your court at the Alcazar; but such rough welcome as a soldier can afford is yours, fair queen. I pray you to honour our quarters with your presence, where I have already ordered such preparations to be made as are possible.” Something in the voice and aspect of Enrique so powerfully reminded Blanche of Fadique, that she remained utterly speechless, to the great distress of Claire, who whispered into her ear, “For the sake of the Virgin, who has sent him, thank him as he deserves.” Enrique, quickly penetrating the sense of the words, saluting her graciously, replied: “I desire no thanks from the queen. If I did, I much mistake me if the noble _demoiselle_ with whom I speak could not as fittingly reply as her mistress.” At this compliment, spoken with all the charm of Spanish gallantry, Claire blushes deeply, and holds down her head. “Pardon me, my lord,” and Blanche stops suddenly as Enrique draws her gently forward in the direction of the portal, “if I ask of the welfare of your brother, the Grand Master?” Her voice trembled as she named him, and her face grew ashy white. Instead of answering her, Enrique paused abruptly and laid his disengaged hand on her shoulder, as if to support her. His silence, and the care with which he bore her up alarmed her. Slowly she turned her eyes upon his face, clouded by grief, and a faint cry escaped her. “Is he dead?” she asked, in a voice almost inaudible. “He is,” was the answer. “By whose hand did he fall?”