He was a pale, light-haired lad, with exceedingly soft blue eyes, which he inherited from the pure stock of the Gothic sovereigns of Spain, descending to him unbroken from that glorious time when Pelayo swayed the strongest European sceptre, before Tarik led his conquering bands from Africa. His ringlets streamed down his shoulders as he bent his head and crossed his small white hands upon his breast in token of reverence towards the king. As he appeared there in the graceful dress suited to his years, he looked more like a creature of dreams, when holy imaginations colour them, than a false witness against his own mother. Elvira looked at him for full a minute without moving or speaking, until at length his innocent-looking beauty gave birth to some vague confidence in her that he was not coming to destroy her, but perhaps the contrary. The moment this feeling took possession of her, she bounded forward with a shriek of delight, and flinging herself on the ground before him, she clasped his knees, and letting her head sink between her arms, she endeavoured to stay so, while she wept for the first time since she entered the hall. Fernando, however, drew back violently, and disengaged himself from her embrace. The queen looked up at him half-vacantly as he did so; and then she arose, and in a solemn though flattering voice she said, “What art thou going to do or to say, Fernando? They may take me away to the stake and burn me, if thou beliest me now, for thy crime will be worse torture to me than any they can inflict!” “Speak, Fernando,” said the king. Fernando trembled and hesitated, but a motion from Garcia caught his eye and emboldened him to go on. He told that he had seen Elvira giving to Don Pedro Sesse, from the royal stables, that favourite steed which the king had ordered should be ridden by none but himself. Sancho’s brow flushed with sudden anger when he heard this. “Elvira! Pedro!” said he, “is this true?” “It is true,” said Elvira, “but I alone am guilty! Pedro knew not of thy command. As I live, he did not. Let me suffer, oh, Sancho, for this one fault, but pardon the innocent!” “She prays for pardon for her paramour!” cried Garcia, exultingly; “what other proof is needful?” “Hast thou aught more to declare?” said the king to Fernando, in a tone of displeasure. Again the boy trembled, and looked towards Garcia, whose eagle eye was like a guilty spell upon him. “Let him look at the queen as he speaks,” said Sancho. The boy turned towards his mother, but his cheek reddened as he did so, and he cast his eyes towards the ground without speaking. “Speak on!” said the king.