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“I am ready, my lord, to wed the prince,” said Isabel, with a proud smile. “Give me your blessing. Before you all, I declare that I accept for my consort the Infante of Aragon, whose nobility of soul exceeds all my desires” (1467).

And here it may be noted that the princes were so poor that the archbishop paid the expenses of the marriage and of their journey into Aragon.

At Segovia, Isabel was proclaimed Queen of Castile, December 14, 1474, by her devoted subject the governor, Don Andreas de Cabrera, then husband of her friend, Beatrix de Bobadilla. A noble company of ricoshombres, priests, and alcades, in their robes of office, waited on her in the Alcazar in the Sala del Trono, and escorted her, under a purple baldaquino, through the city, mounted on a Spanish jennet, preceded by an hidalgo on horseback bearing a naked sword.

“Castile, Castile, for the king and his consort, Doña Isabel!” cried the herald.

But it was Isabel alone that received homage as queen and proceeded to the cathedral to return thanks. How far this omission pleased Don Ferdinand does not appear, but at least he had espoused the fairest woman in Spain – after her mother – and he possessed her entire love.

Of Don Ferdinand, Shakespeare says, “The wisest monarch that ever ruled in Spain”; but the question is, how much of this “wisdom” was due to the far-seeing policy of his adoring wife and to the illustrious servants who so loyally carried out his will?

CHAPTER XXIV
Los Reyes Catolicos

THE union of Ferdinand and Isabel (Los Reyes Catolicos) knits mediæval with modern times.

The whole round of royal actors in the dramatic epoch move before us as living characters on the stage of life. Their daughter Juana, la Folle, her handsome husband Philippe le Bel, Duke of Burgundy, the parents of Charles V., Katharine, her younger sister, married to King Henry VIII., Philip II., his son Don Carlos, and Elizabeth of Spain, bring us on to modern wars with Alva and Orange, the Armada, and our own Queen Elizabeth.

At once the royal spouses were involved in anarchy and war.

Alfonso, King of Portugal, brother to the bad queen, actually espoused his niece, Juana la Beltraneja, then thirteen, to gain the throne. But he was defeated by Ferdinand, and the standard of Portugal – borne by the gallant De Almeyda first with his right hand, then with his left, when, losing both arms, he held it in his teeth – was torn to shreds. Alfonso retreated, and the Beltraneja, the innocent cause of so much strife and bloodshed, disgusted with a world in which she had found nothing but sorrow, took the black veil at the convent of Santa Chiara at Coimbra.

Ferdinand was, before everything, a soldier. He lived on the battle-field, and the queen, who followed him in all things with devoted love, rode with him in his campaigns, mounted on a war-horse, encased in mail, at the head of her Castilians.

When not engaged in war, she went to and fro in her own kingdom, reforming abuses, founding convents and churches, and enforcing the laws, fallen into much disuse during the riotous reign of her brother; in all assisted by her great minister, Cardinal Ximenes, her friend and secretary, Peter Martyr, Cardinal Mendoza, Garcilaso de la Vega, and, alas! be it added, by her fanatic confessor, Cardinal Torquemada, whose influence brought about the creation of the tribunal of the Inquisition, “To unite more firmly,” it was said, “Church and State, and to discover and extirpate all heresies, Jews, and unbelievers from the kingdom” (1480).

Two such sovereigns could not long leave the Moors in undisturbed possession of the third of Spain. The north of Africa (Barbary) was theirs, with Sicily and, afterwards, Naples. Ferdinand loved conquest for itself, and, to the pious mind of Isabel, the conversion of the Moslem was a duty direct from God. But as they, with a dogmatism equal to her own, despised the Castilians as unlettered boors, and ridiculed their religion, nothing could solve the difficulty but a cruel war.

Nor was a pretext wanting. The tribute of twelve thousand golden ducats, paid by the Moors from the time of San Fernando for permission to inhabit the land of Spain, was refused; and the brave knight, Don Juan de Vega, was despatched from Cordoba to demand the cause (1478).

And this leads us to the poetic city of Granada, successor in learning and civilisation to Cordoba of the Almoravides, vermilion-walled and rich in running waters, snowy patios, domes, peristyles, and filigree porticoes glowing with rainbow tints, where Moslem knights waylaid pearl-crowned sultanas, and turbaned sheikhs clasped jewelled fingers.

Granada, a name of infinite suggestion in all ages. The Moslem capital and the heart of Moorish Spain. The fastness of the Alhambra rearing its ruddy buttresses aloft over the land. The plaza of the Bivarrambla, the centre of tilt and tourney, the pillared bazar of the Alcayceria, gay with eastern wares, the narrow Zacatin strewed with the ducats of Oriental wealth, the walled-in fortress of the Albaycin commanding the frowning gorge of the Darro, the two gardens of the Alamedas, each with its dashing rivers, backed by the eternal snows of the mountains of the Sierra Nevada.

What a world of beauty! The Vega, emerald green, with orange groves and pasture, huertas and carmens, showing between, where cool airs waft from woods and gardens; the Xenil, like a blue ribbon, wandering to the sea by precipices and defiles, eloquent with song under the heavy tread of hostile hosts; the pale line of the Elvira mountains to the west, and arid sepia-tinted range opposite, to be called in our own day “the last sigh of the Moor,” and the airy palace of the Generalife perched on high among dark cypress groves, backed by the naked outline of a brown hill, “The Seat of the Moor,” under which Boabdil still is said to sit.

By the gate of Elvira Don Juan de Vega entered Granada with a small but well-chosen band, the great banner of Los Reyes borne before him by a herald. And so stern did he and his Castilians look, and so haughty was their carriage, that the Moors, though they hated them, let them pass unchallenged.

As they traversed the narrow streets of Los Gomeles, they passed by the great mosque, now the cathedral, and many palaces, the sound of water ever in their ears, so abundantly is the city supplied.

Nor did Don Juan fail to notice, in his passage, that the city was in a complete state of defence; the walls, of tremendous strength, manned and furnished with the heavy artillery of the day, the outposts guarded by deep ditches, and the Moorish soldiers many and well equipped with steel morions, chain armour, and stout scimitars at their side.

They enter the Alhambra by the three great arches of the Gate of Justice, one within the other, bearing the talismanic signs of the hand and the key, which no one has ever explained, and pass by the rude stone where the Moorish kings administer justice. Challenged by the Moorish guard, a parley ensues as to the errand on which they come.

“To deliver the Catholic sovereigns’ message to the King of Granada,” replies Don Juan, proudly. Upon which the black-bearded Moslems open the massive doors onto a narrow road, with sharp angles to baffle an enemy, a road only for horses and litters, the walls orange-coloured and glowing. And so they follow on to the broad platform where the alcazada (keep) rears its majestic front with quatrefoil arches, bright with gaudy tiles, in the centre of a wondrous group of vermilion towers, each with its tradition of battle and carnage, to the patio of the Alberca, a marble-lined court, bordered by canals and fragrant hedges of myrtle and orange, an arcaded frontispiece at one end, and at the other the sun-dyed walls of the ancient tower of Comares.

And here it must be noted that the Alhambra is a fortress following on round the crown of a broad hill rising over Granada, and is entirely formed of fortified walls and innumerable Moorish towers of extraordinary solidity and various sizes, covering a vast platform divided into arcaded courts of exquisite beauty, and that there is no solid building at all, but lovely suites of halls following on, formed to the taste of an Oriental people living in the open air.

Don Juan is received with much formal courtesy in the court of the Alberca – where the water cisterns are guarded by low hedges of sweet shrubs – by the sheikhs and emirs attending on the king, a glittering band of dark-visaged eunuchs. By them Don Juan alone is led to the tower of Comares, through marvellously worked arches dropping with golden stalactites, a vista of vestibules of scarcely earthly beauty, panelled and embroidered in patterns of roses, bosses, emblems, borders, and arabesques all in pale Oriental shades of red, green, and blue; a scene of enchantment utterly bewildering to the simple mind of the Castilian knight. Then under more snowy arches, set with filigree edges, as of gems, into the Hall of the Ambassadors, glowing with gold and deep azure, with open-pillared balconies overhanging the precipitous banks of the Darro, giving a glimpse of outer splendour to the sombre walls, to prepare the mind of the stranger for the awful presence of Muley Hassan, seated upon a golden throne, inclosed by screens and hangings of jewelled embroideries fringed with pearls. Gold and silver tissues lie at his feet, and at his back a divan of dark heads, dazzling white turbans, and plumed casques with trembling gems; a vaulted artesonado dome over his head radiant with stars scintillating in a ground of crystal and tortoise-shell.

As the good knight, nothing daunted, stands forth in glittering armour, before the old king, under a battery of hostile eyes, he speaks his message in a loud, clear voice:

“I come, O Caliph of Granada! from the sovereigns of Castile and Aragon, to demand the tribute due, for the permission to occupy the land of Spain, conquered from your ancestors by San Fernando of Castile!”

As he listens, a bitter smile curls Muley’s bearded lips, and his hand seeks the handle of a jewelled dagger at his side.

“Tell the Spanish rulers,” he says, in a voice tremulous with passion, “that the sovereigns of Granada who paid tribute are all dead. My mint coins nothing but dagger-blades and lances!”

War – bitter war – spoke in these words. Nor did the haughty bearing of the turbaned court belie the sign.

So Don Juan accepted it, but he was too discreet a knight to permit this impression to influence the lofty courtesy of his departure, as, with fitting salutations, he returned, filled with amazement at all the wonders he had seen.

Nor was the impression lessened as he passed through the Court of Lions, followed by a band of swarthy attendants, black-skinned Ethiopians and Nubians, naked but for a white cloth about their loins, and noted the giant forms of the marble lions filled with leaden pipes, which support the double basins, to the verge of which the fountain rises; the Arab porticoes and pavilions around the court, light as air, and range upon range of snowy arches, worked with the fineness of a chiselled cup.

If architecture at all, an Oriental fantasia, utterly unreal! the splendour of the Hall of Justice, of the Abencerrages, which follows on either side, with long vistas of many-domed halls opening into other patios, where violets, roses, and orange-trees blaze in the light, entered by portals glowing with brilliant mosaics, a low arch, specially pointed out to him by a noble Moor, more courteous than the rest, in the Hall of Justice, as leading to the place of execution. Whether intended as a hint to him of his danger, or of the swift course of justice towards the condemned, did not appear. At any rate, Don Juan remained perfectly unmoved; he had confessed before he started, and his life belonged to his sovereign – but when he was joined by a flippant emir, oiled and combed, who ventured to enter into an argument against the Christian faith, and especially the folly of believing in the immaculate conception of the Virgin, forgetting all the prescribed bearing of an envoy, he dealt him a sounding blow on the head with his sheathed sword.

In an instant a noise like thunder swept through the court, and the long lines of white arcades, at the back of the pavilion, were darkened by masses of Africans, black as night, stolid, passionless, their silver breastplates and long earrings shining on their dark skins, carrying immense clubs, studded with brazen nails. In advance the captain, the fatal bowstring hanging on his arm, and his eyes turned to obey the gesture of command to torture or to slay.

But Muley Hassan, better instructed in the usages of courts, instantly sent orders to respect the person and freedom of an ambassador while in his court; and so Don Juan departed safely by the way that he had come.

The night attack on Jaén followed the defiance borne by Don Juan – a cruel onslaught on a defenceless town, the fierce old Muley Hassan turning a deaf ear to all remonstrance.

This was succeeded by the no less cruel assault of the sovereigns on the castle of Alhama near Granada (described in the ballad Ay de mi Alhama), by Ponce de Leon, Marqués de Cadiz, one of Ferdinand’s most valiant captains; and the long Moorish war, destined to last ten years, began in earnest.

CHAPTER XXV
The Siege of Granada

FERDINAND, to whom war was a pastime, had taken the field with all the pomp and circumstance of a tournament.

But the heroic defence of the Moors had given a much more serious aspect to their conquest than he had anticipated.

Nature, too, was on their side. Save towards the sea, at the eastern extremity of Spain, the whole kingdom of Granada is fenced in by almost inaccessible mountains, rugged and barren, broken by dolomite cliffs and dangerous precipices, descending sheer into rocky gorges and dimly lighted valleys – the sentinels of the impenetrable fastnesses which shut in the Moor.

Few were the tracks upon the mountains, and difficult to find. Narrow the gaps which cleave these tremendous ranges towards the plain. So narrow indeed, and walled in by such natural defences, that any army could be shut out by a small force, and as the Moors were accomplished warriors, and fought with a courage never surpassed, each inlet into the land was defended at the sword’s point.

Great had been the vicissitudes of the war of extermination on one side, and of enthusiastic defence of nation, faith, and existence on the other. Years have passed, but the vermilion tower of the Alhambra stands firm, and the Moors come and go in their city with the liberty of free men.

Spite of the fall of Malaga, that great city by the sea, where summer ever reigns, where the Reyes Catolicos were very nearly assassinated by a Moor – Loya, Antequerra, and last of all, Baza, besides many castles and fortresses – each with romantic traditions of bloodshed and warfare – Ferdinand is still encamped on the Vega. For thirty days it has been overrun by his forces, and a region once so exquisite in beauty, and fruitful in corn, olives, orchards, and gardens, has become a scene of desolation and ruin.

Now he has just passed the bridge of Peñas, only two leagues from Granada, after a fierce contest – a famous deed in this bloody war.

By this route the Christians have hitherto made raids into Granada, the bridge being capable of strong resistance on either side, from the long, narrow passage raised high on slender arches, and the ruggedness of the surrounding banks.

Now Ferdinand has called a council of war within his sumptuous tent, literally blazing with purple and gold. A plain man in himself, accused even of a parsimony unfitting in a king, he lives in an age of warlike splendour, and politic in all things and wary of the opinion of those around him, he loves the display of magnificence in the battle-field, to strike awe into the enemy, and raise his own authority among his troops.

With a gravity which suits him well, he is seated at the head of a table scattered with maps and papers. Nor is he in countenance or bearing inferior to the famous chiefs and captains around him. His long hair, falling in locks upon his shoulders, is still auburn, though thin, and streaked with grey, his blue eyes are inscrutable, his features set and stern; altogether a countenance which offers an unsolved problem to posterity, as did his character, varying so greatly at different periods of his life.

He is plainly dressed in a cloth mantle, clasped around his neck by a single jewel; on his breast shines a silver cross, as for one engaged in a crusade against the infidels, and his body is encased in steel.

The Infante Juan is at his side. Isabel has borne him several children, but this is the only son, a delicate-complexioned boy, with thin, aquiline features like his mother’s, altogether too frail for the rough campaigns in which he accompanies his father, and singularly out of place among the hidalgos, who are ranged according to their military rank around the table.

At the king’s right hand is Ponce de Leon, Marqués de Cadiz, a great southern noble, almost as powerful as himself; on the left is the Duque de Medina Sidonia, equal almost in townships, castles, and fortresses to a sovereign, hailing from the south also. Both have performed prodigies of valour in the war. The reckless giant called Hernado de Pulgar sits lower – he who rode into the city of Granada at dead of night, and fixed on the door of the great mosque a tablet with the letters, Ave Maria, then departed as he had come before the Moors had time to seize him; the famous Gonsalvo de Cordoba, to become El Gran Capitan, and Viceroy of Naples, in this war flashing his maiden sword, already marked by nature in features and bearing as a master of men; the Conde de Tendilla, hero of Alcala; El Rey and Cabra, and many others as illustrious as the chiefs of Troy, but with no Homer to celebrate their deeds.

Now the king speaks, first rising and uncovering to salute the Council, then reseating himself, and replacing his velvet bonnet upon his head, in all of which formalities the Council follow him in profound silence.

“My lords,” are his words, “we are met here to decide as to the course of the campaign. Spite of individual acts of courage, Granada is unconquered. The walls are strong, and Boabdil’s general, Mousa, a leader of prudence and renown, vaunts that he will drive us out by avoiding fixed battles, and harassing our armies by perpetual skirmishes in the mountains, and ambushes on the plain. Noble captains and companions, this cannot thus continue; it is a blot on our arms.”

Loud sounds of assent come from all round the table. Several of the great soldiers rise to reply, but, seeing that Ferdinand is prepared to continue, sit down and listen with reverential attention.

“The important post of the bridge of Peñas is ours, gallantly gained” (again voices rise in subdued acclamation, and again die away), “and by the complete desolation of the Vega, we may in time starve the city. But, alas! my lords, this is a work of years. Too long already for our fame have we lingered here. The obscure city of Granada is not the only place where the flag of Spain should be unfurled. But,” and as he proceeds, his brows knit, and the subtle look of an unscrupulous intriguer comes into his clear blue eyes, “there are other means beside the sword by which the prudent general conquers. As the lion in the fable disdains not the assistance of the fox, so do I, for my use, keep myself informed of all that passes in the Alhambra. Treason, my lords, will open the gates of Granada to us better than combat.”

The king’s voice drops. He waits to mark the impression of his words among these heroic leaders who, new to the usages of modern warfare, disdain all means but that of the sword. Murmurs of dissent are indeed heard from the Knights of Pulgar and Aguilar, but subdued as towards their commander.

Ponce de Leon rises. “Don Ferdinand, the King,” he says, “I have no more doubt that under your guidance we shall stand within the courts of the fortress rising so defiantly before us, than that the sun will rise to-morrow, and autumn succeed summer on the plain. Stratagem is good in warfare, though some among us think otherwise. But beware of deception, your Highness; the Moor is like the Jew in cunning and deceit. Why not call the queen again into the field? Her gracious presence is ever the signal of success, and animates the soldiers. Let the saintly Isabel exorcise the infidels by the power of her faith. At the siege of Baza it was so. Why not now?”

“Bravely spoken, Ponce de Leon,” cries De Pulgar, swaying his huge body to and fro with excitement.

“Let the queen appear on the Vega,” cries the Conde de Cabra and Lord Rivers, who became so loud in his acclaim, he had to be silenced by those who sat near.

“God is my witness,” cries Ferdinand, moved to some show of emotion by this enthusiasm, “that I would willingly ever be accompanied by my beloved consort; but this is a matter which neither her Highness nor any one else can influence. I promise you, my lords, the queen shall join us, and that shortly; but I repeat that her presence touches not the matter in hand.”

But the warlike councillors had become so possessed with the idea of the queen’s arrival, that for some minutes nothing could be heard.

“It is not for us to judge of your Highness’s actions,” said, speaking last of all, the young Gonsalvo de Cordoba, whose after career showed that he acted on the same system as his master; “your wisdom is our best safeguard. All means are good to conquer the enemy: to plot while we fight, to undermine while we destroy.”

“You speak well, Gonsalvo,” answered Ferdinand, smiling, as conscious of the sympathy of a kindred spirit who can appreciate his rare qualities of intrigue.

“I will disclose so much to my assembled chiefs as to say that I am possessed of the sure knowledge that the powerful tribe of the Abencerrages are about to leave the city, in secret, to join our standard.”

At these words the whole council rose as one man, loudly to acclaim the king; all save Gonsalvo, who, indeed, stood up like the rest, but had already been informed by Ferdinand of this event.

“The Moorish king,” continued Ferdinand, “listening to the suggestions of the treacherous Zigris (always art variance with the rival tribes), believed that his queen was found in dalliance with an Abencerrage in the garden of the Generalife, called the entire tribe together in the Court of Lions, and barbarously butchered thirty-six of their number. Indeed, but for a boy, a niño, who gave the alarm, all would have perished. So exasperated are they, that one and all have determined to join our camp. Already after night falls, they will steal across the Vega; the sentries are warned, and Mousa and his master, Boabdil will be deprived of their bravest fighters. What say you to this, my valiant captains?”

“Sir King, we say that we are led not only by the bravest general who ever drew sword” (it was the Duque de Medina Sidonia who spoke, and his armed fist fell heavily on the table), “but by the wisest monarch who has reigned since Solomon. Our confidence in your Highness is complete. Lead on, my Lord, and we follow, even to the gates of hell.”

“God willing, I will not go there myself,” answered Ferdinand, smiling at his impetuosity, which, indeed, was reflected in all around, “therefore you are safe from such a danger. Hell, indeed! Into heaven, rather, that we hope to gain in this crusade against the infidels!” and Ferdinand crossed himself devoutly, for, sagacious as he was, and cunning, he was capable of the utmost depths of superstition. “But,” he continued, “spite of this important adherence, we must still fight. To-morrow I command a strong detachment to lay waste to the Vega, even to the city walls. Let all come to me who will join it. My lords, the council is ended.”

Upon this the knights rose and withdrew with all that grave and stately ceremonial which Ferdinand exacted from his followers. Only the young prince remained.

“Juan,” said Ferdinand, casting on him a look of inexpressible affection (deep down in his heart he was a tender man, and this only son was an object to him of almost adoration), “early and late the Infantes of Spain should learn the lesson of policy. It is a new science come in with modern times. Formerly, kings and princes could only fight. Now they use stratagem, which means the knowledge of the balance of power – state against state, noble against noble, Church against State, all of which would have been formerly despised, but in future will rule the world. You see, my son, these notables of Spain? They are the brightest jewels of my crown, but it is for me, their king, that they should unite their brilliancy. The queen, your honoured mother, and I, have by our entire union formed a mighty monarchy which will descend to you, Infante. But it must be maintained, not by brute force, but by knowledge. Santiago! by knowledge!” and as he spoke he seized Don Juan’s delicate fingers and pressed them in his own hard palm. “You look annoyed. Am I too fierce in my words? But by the blessed Virgin! I love you well, Juan. See, I will conquer Granada for you. But not a lizard runs on the painted walls of the Alhambra, but I know it. So in Spain. All is unfolded to me within our joint kingdom. I balance the great nobles as the player does his dice. I am called wise, my son, this is my wisdom.” Here he again crossed himself devoutly. “Ave Maria,” he said, “the blessed Virgin knows the hearts of men.”

Juan listened with a weary attention to his wise father, little consonant with the statecraft to which these lessons tended. He was a soldier who loved to march with the army and cared not for tortuous policy.

“But I love my mother’s ways best,” said the gentle prince, suppressing a yawn, as he sank back into his chair, “with her Grace all is truthful and open.”

“May Heaven bless her!” cried Ferdinand. “She is a noble wife. But it is our union which makes the strength of Spain.”

In the early summer Queen Isabel sets out from Cordoba to join the army, accompanied by her eldest daughter, Isabel, to become Queen of Portugal, attended by prelates, cardinals, and friars. Her younger children, Juana and Catalina, remain behind.

With her, also, are Beatrix de Bobadilla, now Marquesa de Moya, her loving friend, her secretary, Peter Martyr, the Boswell of her life, her Almoner, the Bishop of Talavera, who, when offered the See of Salamanca, replies he will accept nothing but the See of Granada!!! Garcilaso de la Vega, and her court of dueñas and ladies.

The lovely Infanta has now become a stately matron, exceedingly fair, and somewhat inclined to stoutness, spite of the constant activity of her life. All feel the majesty of her presence, and the sway of the enlightened mind that dictates all her actions. Mistress she remains of herself and of her kingdom, spite of Ferdinand’s continual interference. But her love for him is unchanged, although he is far from being the faithful husband she deserves, and she is much tormented by jealousy.

As Queen of Castile she has assisted him in the war to the utmost of her power. The united Cortes of Castile and Aragon have been invoked by their own sovereigns, and each has made independent provision for the Moorish war “to be pursued to the end,” as necessary to the well-being of the nation.

It is a lovely valley she traverses on her way from Cordoba to Granada, now followed by the rail. Here is Montilla, famous for its white wines; old towers and castles succeed each other on the hills, and the sunny slopes are lined by vineyards and pomegranate woods. Olive-trees, big as ancestral oaks, make avenues as far as the eye can reach, and the damp wind sounds like music among the reeds at the Puerte del Xenil. At the town of Bobadilla, now a station, the huge mountains of Granada shut in all the plain, impregnable barriers between the Christian and the Moor.

The queen travels mounted on a mule, seated on a golden saddle – a rich kirtle of velvet with hanging sleeves forms her robe, cut square on the neck, and a long mantle and a black hat complete her attire.

As she advances through the defile, the Rock of the Lovers (Pina de los Enamorados) opens to the sight, so called because a Christian knight, who loved a Moorish maid, flung himself from the summit to die with her in his arms.

Higher up in the mountains the queen is met by a splendid train of knights, headed by the elegant Ponce de Leon, courtly as he is brave – indeed, from his actions in this war he has been named the second Cid – and Lord Rivers, the English volunteer, mounted a la guisa (meaning with long stirrups), wearing over his armour a velvet cloak and a French hat and feather, attended by pages in silk, and foot soldiers.

The earl, as eccentric as he is brave, bare-headed makes a reverence to the queen, which she returns, at the same time graciously condescending to compliment him on his valour in the siege of Loja, further condoling with him on the loss of his two front teeth, knocked out by the hilt of a Moorish scimitar.

“But Earl Rivers might,” continues Isabel, in her soft voice, bending on him the calm lustre of her blue eyes, recorded as such a beauty in her faultless face, “have lost the teeth by natural decay, whereas now their lack will be esteemed a glory rather than a shame.”

To which the earl, bowing to his saddle-bow, replies that he returns thanks to God for the honour her Highness has done him in allowing him to meet her; that he is contented, nay, even happy in the loss of his teeth seeing that it was for the service of God and of her Highness; for God having given him all the teeth he possesses, in depriving him of two has but opened a window in the house of his body, the more readily to observe the soul within.

As the royal cavalcade approaches the great gonfalon of Spain, the queen makes a low reverence and passes to the right hand, awaiting Ferdinand, who appears in state, armed cap-à-pie in mail so wrought with gold it seems all of that metal – a snowy plume waving over a diadem on his neck, a massive chain, the links inwrought with gems of the rough workmanship of Gothic times when everything was ponderous, mounted on a chestnut charger, and attended by the Christian knights. But as they approach each other, these royal spouses, in the presence of the army and in a hostile land, it is not in the guise of mutual lovers, but as allied sovereigns that they meet. Three formal reverences are their salutation, the queen taking off her hat as Ferdinand approaches and formally kisses her on the cheek. He also kisses his daughter and blesses her, and so they pass into the camp to the lofty tent prepared for Isabel. In the centre of the camp, not, indeed, a tent, but a pavilion in the Oriental taste, formed of sheets of cloth of gold, divided into compartments of painted linen lined with silk, each compartment separated from the other by costly arras. Lances make its columns, brocade and velvet its walls, and it covers such an extent of ground as might have been occupied by a real palace.