He was a grand old gentleman, with hair as white as honor. But his age had not brought him humility. He was as proud as he was grand, and as merciless as he was proud. Turning to his court--for this grandee retained a court--he continued: “You, Senors, witness this fall of mine! This woman whom I loved, but till now I thought as pure as the moonlight streaming on her through the window. As for these men--my hands are weak, but one can bear a sword--the other a shield. Yet not here within my house shall blood be spilt. Go, pass before me.” The last few words were addressed to the king and Ernani, and then for the first time he looked upon them--but the light was too feeble for him to recognize even one of them. “Gently--gently,” said one of these two. But the don cried out haughtily. “None but myself had right to speak.” Suddenly, high and loud in the air, sounded a herald’s trumpet. And, within a moment or so, it was whispered among the crowd, still without the door, that it was a king’s messenger. A lane was made for him by Don Ruy--who turned to the herald, imagining that he came to him. Following the herald came torch-bearers. On came the herald. He did not salute the master of the castle--he did not even look at him. On past him, past one of the men found in the lady’s room--past the lady even--up to the second intruder, before whom he knelt. “THE KING,” cried many, as the herald knelt, and above him stood, now in the full light of the torches, the brave man who bore a dagger sheath, but not a dagger. Then said the king, “Don Ruy, I came to consult thy friendship for me.” See! The proud Don Ruy has stooped his head; then he steps forward, and humbly welcomes to his house “the king.” As they crowd about the king--as the latter receives their homage--the robber Ernani and the lady were forgotten, and they stood apart, whispering-- “Until the sun sinketh again in the deep Resist the proud tyrant, nor yield to dismay; For Ernani unbroken thy precious faith keep, And to-morrow from peril I’ll bear thee away.” * * * * * “Thou knowest I’m thine--know also this steel Can save me from tyrants--nor do I repine; In wretchedness even ’tis solace to feel That my heart--that my faith, will for ever be thine.” See, now, the proud noble stoops to kneel before the outraged king, and entreats his pardon. And, graciously, the king accords it. Hark! the king demands a safe pass for Ernani. He still thinks the eagle should not injure the worm. See, the bandit passes away, out to freedom. The king is gracious, the don trembles, and the Lady Elvira is presented to the king in due form and courtesy. PART II.--THE GUEST. With the next day’s sun came Elvira’s marriage day. No hope of flight--fate was against her, and so her envious women dress her for the sacrifice.