From the kneeling eunuch came a shriek and moan and incoherent jabbering.  The captain cursed and stayed his uplifted arm.

“It is too dark to strike,” he growled.  “Wait till the moon is from behind that cloud.  Ugh!  It is black here, pitchy black.”  A full, heavy minute elapsed, disturbed by the scuffle of the negro’s feet as he ran and cowered in the furthest corner, and the soft creaking of the iron door, and a sudden suck and soughing of the night air.  Then the moon slipped slyly from its frayed woolly covers, and relit the donjon keep.  “Holy God and Father,” and the halberd clanked noisily to the floor.  In the half open doorway stood the king’s favorite, the Lady Suelva.  Against the frosted green background of the moonlit courtyard her shimmering robe, her white face and throat, and her long hair of flaming copper stood out gloriously.  She did not move, but stayed peering through the unaccustomed gloom, as if to recognize the dark figures before her.  The eunuch flung himself at her feet, and squirmed and grovelled.  “Save me, lady save me!” But she thrust him from her with a sharp push of her foot.

The captain turned to the jester.  “Take down thy burden,” he whispered.  “Down to the torture room with him.”

But the lady heard and came forward.  “No,” she said imperiously, “lay him down upon the floor, and let me see what has been done with him.”

The captain grumbled and swore under his heavy mustache.  “Take him away, fool.  Do as I bid!”

But the lady stepped between.  “Stop!  Let me see him.”  Her voice rose high and shaking; she was fast losing her stately calmness.

The captain sneered.  “See him!  And why?  Have you not seen enough of him this night?”

“No, no! he was but singing to me!”

“Yet I found you with him on the balcony.”

“I swear it,” she repeated, “he was but singing to me.”

The captain heaved his shoulders with so great a shrug that the ringlets of his coat of mail jangled and clinked.  “I have my orders,” he said, “which come from the king himself.”

“The king?” She snapped her fingers.  “And who orders the king?  He would obey my slightest wish.”

“No use, dame.  Nor heaven nor hell could save this squire from his death.  As for the eunuch, he will mayhap be spared, if thou so wish it.  He is thy servant—­and his life at thy command.”  The negro whined and moaned and crept to kiss her feet.

But Suelva flung herself back.  “What care I for his foul black hide?  ’Tis the young squire’s life I crave.”

“Then both must die.”

“Mother Mary!  But let me hold him in my arms.”  She tore the jester’s burden from him, and staggering under its weight, turned to the middle of the room.  Then she saw, for the first time, the bier and what it bore.  She gasped, and let the squire’s body sink in a huddled heap on the floor.  “Who is it?” she asked, crossing herself.  She looked closer.  “Yes, I remember thee, fond old mute.  Pha! but thou smellest of the grave.  And why have they left thee lying here, this fortnight?”