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 a man whose blood belongs to the noblest in Spain, without having a more imperative order from your Majesty," and he bowed again.

The nobles, who had listened with great attention to these words, broke into a murmur of approbation as the man finished speaking. The proud Castilian blood rushed like a stream of lava through their veins, and dyed their faces crimson. The manifestation became general. Young Alonza D'Ossuna openly asserted his opinion by putting on his plumed cap. His bold example was followed by the majority of the nobles, and their lofty nodding crests seemed to proclaim with defiance that their masters protested in favour of the privilege, which the hidalgos of Spain have always enjoyed, of covering their heads before their Sovereign.

The King gave a furious start, and striking his fist violently upon the chess-board, scattered the chessmen in all directions.

"He has been judged by our Royal Court of Justice," he cried, "and condemned to death. What does the traitor demand?"

"Sire!" replied the executioner, "he asks permission to die upon the block, and also to pass the three last hours of his life with a priest."

"Ah, that is granted!" replied Philip, in a tone of relief. "Is not our confessor in the prison according to our orders?"

"Yes, sire!" said Calavar, "the holy man is there; but the Duke refuses to see St. Diaz de Silva. He says he cannot receive absolution from anyone below the dignity of a Bishop. Such is the privilege of a noble condemned to death for high treason."

"Yes, these are our rights!" boldly inter rupted the fiery D'Ossuna; "and we claim from the King our cousin's privileges."

This demand acted as a signal.

"Our rights and the King's justice are inseparable," cried Don Diego de Tarraxas, Count of Valence, an old man of gigantic stature, clothed in armour, holding in his hands the bâton of Great Constable of Spain, and leaning upon his long Toledo blade.

"Our rights and our privileges!" cried the nobles, repeating the words like an echo. Their audacity made the King start with fury from his ebony throne.

"By the bones of Campeador!" he cried. "By the soul of St. Jago! I have sworn neither to eat nor sleep until the bleeding head of Don Gusman lies before me. As I have sworn, so shall it be. But Don Tarraxas has said well, 'The King's justice confirms his subjects' rights.' My Lord Constable, where does the nearest Bishop reside?"

"Sire, I have more to do with camp than with the Church," the Constable replied, somewhat abruptly. "Your Majesty's chaplain, Don Silvas, is present: he can tell you better than I."

Don Silvas began to speak in trepidation.

"Sire," he said, humbly, "the Bishop of Segovia is an official of the King, but he who filled the duty died last week, and the parchment which names his