In the midst of a superb procession rides the Red King, the accoutrements of his horse set with jewelled fringes; on his head he wears the green turban of the followers of the Prophet, and in the centre, conspicuous among a galaxy of gems, three enormous rubies are set, the middle one, known as “the Balax,” big as a pigeon’s egg. When he beholds Don Pedro in royal robes, standing on the threshold of his gorgeous portal, surrounded by such of the brilliant Castilians who as yet are true to him, the dusky emir is moved to smile, and as he dismounts to kiss Don Pedro’s hand, the Balax gleaming like fire on his head, his steely blue eyes fix on it greedily, and it is clear to Don Juan who stands behind, that strong passion of some kind moves him. Long he contemplates in silence the turban of the Moor; then, turning abruptly to Don Juan, he whispers: “What right has the Infidel to wear such gems? While my treasury is empty he comes here to flaunt them in my face. Mark me, _amigo mio_, I will have that Balax before the day is old. It is worth a king’s ransom and will some day stand me in good stead.” “I pray your Grace not to contemplate so villainous a project,” is Don Juan’s reply. “You have enemies enough, methinks, without making more. I will not help you. I am willing to second you, as my liege and sovereign, in the field or the _duelo_, to the death, but by St. Helena or any other male or female saint, I cannot stand by you in a matter of open spoiling of your guest.” “No, but the gems, the gems,” returns the king in the same whisper. “I never saw the like! I cannot take my eyes from them!” “That may or may not be. It is no concern of mine, my lord. I am no merchant to adjudge their value; nor do I care for such toys except on the bosom of the fair, where I would be before your Grace in plucking them. Otherwise, let every man and every Moor, I say, possess his own; and if the emir likes to deck himself like a peacock he is free for me.” * * * * * As the day falls and the bells of the Giralda tower and of all the towers in the churches of Seville have ceased their clang, a sumptuous banquet is spread in the Hall of the Ambassadors. Darker and darker grows Don Pedro’s brow as the feast continues, and more and more anxiously his eyes turn towards the entrance leading into the Patio de las Doncellas. As the innumerable courses of _pilaus_ and curries, conserves and sweetmeats are served in honour of his guests, with the finest wines of Xeres and Malaga, and golden basins with perfumed water and embroidered napkins are offered between each course, Don Pedro can scarcely master his impatience.