It is in the month of March, on the 23d. In those elevated peaks winter still reigns. Snow lies thick on the mountains, blocking the deep ravines, and rending giant cliffs. Far below, in a cold mist, lies the wide-spreading plains of La Mancha. No ray of sun breaks the veil, as Don Pedro, on horseback, emerges from the portcullis of the castle, clad in a heavy mantle which entirely conceals his figure, the hood pressed over his face. As he passes beneath, his eye catches the figure of an eagle over the arch, and under it the words “_Torre de Estrella_.” With horror he remembers that in the letter which Blanche addressed to him before her execution (where she solemnly calls on him to meet her beyond the grave), it is at the “_Torre de Estrella_” she foretells that he shall die. Great as is the shock at that moment, he tries to laugh it off. He never has cared for prophecies, why now? But something about it strikes his senses with awe. Words from the dead are certain to come true. This is distinctly a message. What matter? And the same reckless courage comes over him as of old. If to die, he will sell his life dearly. Perhaps it is a dream. Who knows? So, carefully guiding his steed, he passes down the narrow path, zigzagging the descent in wide-lying circles. The wind rises and howls in his face, the crannies of the rocks groan as if haunted by demons, and a storm of sleet and hail strikes full upon him, driving him back each step he takes. Hardly can the wiry little horse he bestrides make way against the blast. But, in one of those rapid changes so common in the south, before he has reached the plain the fleecy clouds have lifted, driven back by the raging wind, the sky clears, and a sickly sun shines out on the surface of the lakes, beside which the tents of the encampment lie, protected by strong barricades, under groups of low scrub and tempest-torn oaks. No guard turns out to receive him, no flourish of trumpets heralds his approach; the sentinels, enveloped in heavy garments to shield them from the cold, pass to and fro indifferent beneath the banner of Castile, floating wildly in the wind, nor do they salute him as he enters the tent. After a few words have passed between Don Pedro and Du Guesclin, whose embarrassment is apparent as he parries his questions as to the plan formed for his escape, and alarmed at the manner in which he is received, he moves forward and calls to Mem Rodrigues, who has remained outside the tent, in a loud voice. “Let us go!” are his words; “it is time.” Seizing the bridle of his horse he is about to mount, when he is intercepted by one of Du Guesclin’s cousins. “Wait a moment, my lord,” he says; “there is no haste,” and he draws him again into the tent. Before he can reply, Don Enrique, who is watching, appears close to Don Pedro, armed at all points. At first Don Pedro does not recognise him, not having seen him for many years, until the same cousin who seized the bridle of his horse, whispers: