Lofty in nature is the prince, square and solid in limb and chest, his hair cut short as convenient for his helmet, his upper lip, after the Norman fashion, covered with a thick moustache which mingled with his beard, light brown in colour, and long and luxuriant. Somewhat prominent large hazel eyes look out of a well-moulded face remarkable for mildness of expression, his whole personality singularly engaging, an impression only heightened as the fine curves of his lips open with the candour of a natural smile. “Our ally tarries on the way,” he says, scanning [Illustration: THE INTERIOR OF THE MOSQUE, ALHAMBRA.] the bare expanse of the sandy track before him, bordering the Garonne, broken by the lines of vineyards in the more cultivated lands. “Perhaps he would make us feel that we have been remiss in replying to his various messages. Nothing but absolute obedience to my father’s order would have kept me so long silent, in face of the news of his great need.” The prince addresses himself to Chandos, who stands immediately behind him, his wrinkled countenance already showing marks of the hard life he has led in camps and battles, but, as he speaks, he lays his hand lightly on the shoulder of his brother Lancaster, looking out with eager eyes in the same direction as himself. “How now, my young gallant, are you impatient to behold the Spanish beauties? Who knows if you do not lose your fickle heart to one? These señoritas of Andalusia must surely inherit some of their mother, Maria de Padilla’s boasted charms.” The downy cheeks of young Lancaster turn to a rosy red at general attention being thus openly called to him. He turns aside, somewhat annoyed that his curiosity has been detected by his brother, and mutters something about a leveret of a certain breed which he expects from Spain. The excuse is received by the prince with a light laugh, and in a lower voice he continues his conversation with Chandos. “I confess that nothing but the king’s actual presence on English soil would have decided me to look with favour on the expedition he comes to propose.” “I agree with you, my lord,” is the answer of Chandos. “A campaign in the centre of Spain is a dangerous venture with a nation of enemies at our back.” “Yet,” adds the Black Prince, and a serious expression comes into his eyes, “the personal appeal of an allied prince is difficult to refuse, especially under the present circumstances of his arrival. But much as I should rejoice once more to draw the sword, I can bind myself to nothing but an interchange of courtesies at present.” “Right, my lord,” answers Chandos, “I am of the same mind as your Grace. Besides, it appears to my humble judgment that a sovereign rejected by the whole nation cannot have an altogether clean chronicle to show. Report, at least, is not favourable to Don Pedro, who has gained the nickname of _El Cruel_.”