An uninteresting apartment was erected by Ferdinand VI. over the famous Baths of Maria de Padilla, which are approached through an arched entrance, and, surrounded by thick walls, have more the appearance of a dungeon than of a resort of Love and Beauty. The pool still remains where the lovely favourite bathed her fair limbs. In her time it had no other roof than the blue sky of Andalusia, and no further protection from prying eyes than that afforded by the orange and lemon trees. At Pedro’s court it was esteemed a mark of gallantry and loyalty to drink the waters of the bath, after Maria had performed her ablutions. Observing that one of his knights refrained from this act of homage, the king questioned him and elicited the reply, “I dare not drink of the water, lest, having tasted the sauce, I should covet the partridge.” These baths were no doubt used by the ladies of the harem in Moorish days. The gardens of the Alcazar form a delicious pleasaunce, where the orange and the citron diffuse their fragrance, and fairy-like fountains spring up suddenly beneath the unwary passenger’s feet, sprinkling him with a cooling and perhaps not unwelcome dew. But this paradise has its serpent, and that is the truculent shade of the cruel king, which for ever seems to haunt the Alcazar. Here Pedro prowled one day, when four candidates for the office of judge presented themselves before him. To test their fitness for the post, the king pointed to an orange floating on the surface of a pool close by. He asked each of the lawyers in succession what the floating object was. The three first replied without consideration, “An orange, sire.” But the fourth drew the fruit from the water with his staff, glanced at it, and replied with absolute accuracy, “_Half_ an orange, sire.” He was appointed to the vacant magistracy. Before leaving the Alcazar, we will briefly summarise the history of its transformations and reconstructions. As we have seen, the palace generally may be considered the work of Don Pedro. In the reign of Juan II., the Salón de los Embajadores was enriched with its fine cupola. A tablet, discovered in 1843, testifies that the architect was Don Diego Roiz, and that the artisans employed in the work were made freemen of the city.