“Ay,” muttered Don Alonzo, evidently struggling to recall his energies, while the peculiar tone of the single monosyllable caused every heart to shudder.

“And where is he?  Why came he not hither?  Why neglect our royal summons?” continued the King, hurrying question after question with such an utter disregard of his usual calm, imperturbable cautiousness, that it betrayed far more than words how much he dreaded the Senor’s reply.  “Speak, man; what has detained him?”

“Death!” answered the warrior, his suppressed grief and horror breathing in his hollow voice; and rising, he approached the King’s seat, and kneeling down, said in that low, concentrated tone, which reaches every ear, though scarce louder than a whisper, “Sire, he is murdered!”

“Murdered!” reiterated the King, as the word was echoed in all the various intonations of horror, grief, and indignation from all around; and he laid his hand heavily on Aguilar’s shoulder—­“Man, man, how can this be?  Who would dare lift up the assassin’s hand against him—­him, the favorite of our subjects as of ourselves?  Who had cause of enmity—­of even rivalship with him?  Thou art mistaken, man; it cannot be!  Thou art scared with the sight of murder, and no marvel; but it cannot be Morales thou hast seen.”

“Alas! my liege, I too believed it not; but the murdered corpse now lying in the hall will be too bloody witness of my truth.”

The King released his hold, and without a word of rejoinder, strode from the apartment, and hastily traversing the long galleries, and many stairs, neither paused nor spoke, till, followed by all his nobles, he reached the hall.  It was filled with soldiers, who, with loud and furious voices, mingled execrations deep and fearful on the murderer, with bitter lamentations on the victim.  A sudden and respectful hush acknowledged the presence of the Sovereign; Ferdinand’s brows were darkly knit, his lip compressed, his eyes flashing sternly over the dense crowd; but he asked no question, nor relaxed his hasty stride till he stood beside the litter on which, covered with a mantle, the murdered One was lying.  For a single minute he evidently paused, and his countenance, usually so controlled as never to betray emotion, visibly worked with some strong feeling, which seemed to prevent the confirmation of his fears, by the trifling movement of lifting up the mantle.  But at length, and with a hurried movement, it was cast aside; and there lay that noble form, cold, rigid in death!  The King pushed the long, jetty hair, now clotted with gore, from the cheek on which it had fallen; and he recognized, too well, the high, thoughtful brow, now white, cold as marble; the large, dark eye, whose fixed and glassy stare had so horribly replaced the bright intelligence, the sparkling lustre so lately there.  The clayey, sluggish white of death was already on his cheek; his lip, convulsively compressed, and the left hand tightly