Chapter XIII: Queen Blanche in Sanctuary

The bright morning which broke so auspiciously at the Alcazar has darkened. The deep shadows of gathering clouds press up from the horizon and veil the city in a soft mist. The many towers and domes of the Cathedral rise up like landmarks on a shadowy sea; the delicate tracery of the gilded spire, capped by a crown of thorns, catching some latent sunbeam hidden in the lining of a cloud, alone stands out apparent in the gloom.

Like the Cathedral of Seville, the original Gothic church, in which the Wambas and the Witicas had worshipped according to the Gothic creed from the earliest ages, had become a mosque under the Moors, to be again consecrated by San Fernando, who, smelling blasphemy in the very walls, pulled them down and laid the foundations of the present church, finished two centuries later, in the florid style of that _barocco_ union of the east and west so common in Spain.

Nothing can be worse than the situation. It stands absolutely in a hole. But it is within that this shrine of marble is wonderful. The clustered pillars of five vast naves, a marble space in the centre as wide and long as a hippodrome, the solid bulk of the _retablo_ a blaze of gold, separating the high altar from the nave; the sculptured semi-circle of the absis broken by chapels, niches, shrines, and tombs sunk in the deepness of shadow, where kings and archbishops repose; the superb pavement in marble, lapis lazuli, porphyry, and agate lighting up the floor, rare pictures on the walls, statues, carvings, and huge bronze doors leading into the choir, the double pulpits coated with gold, the glorious screen in _alto relievo_, and the superbly painted windows casting down warm shadows as of ruby, emerald, and sapphire on the floor.

Deeper and deeper fall the shadows, and more and more solemn gathers the half-light, save for a glimmer far in the distance where a dim lamp burns before an altar of most delicate tracery flanked by two lofty windows, the front shut in by a brazen rail, while a lacelike shroud of exquisite stonework rises behind, reaching as with giant leaps to the heavily groined roof.

In the farthest corner, crouching beside the altar, sits Blanche, her feet resting on an embroidered cope, brought by the pitying priests, Claire close beside her. Both are so still in the waves of gloom outside, that they might pass for statues on a tomb, pressed close together, habited in hood and cape as Carmelites.

“I shall die,” whispers Blanche, “if no one comes before night,” and a cold shudder passes over her.

“Dear Blanche, keep a good heart, after all we have gone through. Here at least we are safe. I wish to heaven,” adds Claire, “_he_ were, who has staked his life to bring us here.”

“Ah, Claire, you are in love, and that comforts you. I have no one to care for me since I parted with Fadique, God grant that he is saved. But, Claire, are you quite sure that the priest understood he was to inform the Conde de Trastamare that I am here?”

“Yes,” is the answer; “what a miracle it was that he is in possession of Toledo. Had it been Don Pedro, he would have broken the sanctuary as sure as fate.”

“I should like to see this Enrique de Trastamare,” whispers Blanche, her white face lighting up for an instant at the thought of a possible protector. “I am sure he is good, because he fights against that horrible monster Pedro. After all, I am a queen; the King of France will rescue me. You remember the Governor of Talavera said the French were marching on Toledo, and that was why we were to come here. For my part I would have rather gone in quite another direction, towards Navarre. Ah! how I tremble when I think of it all, and that mule that kicked me off, just as we were leaving the castle by the narrow path! I wonder I was not killed; I am sure I am bruised!”

“And our danger,” adds Claire, glad to see Blanche’s mind disengaged from the continual terror she endures, “when we passed the outer tents of the encampment, in our Carmelite disguise (how clever of the governor to think of it), and those soldiers asked us so rudely if we would absolve them! Oh, how I shake when I think of it. All seemed over with us; and so it would have been, if that handsome Aragonese knight had not come up, and perceived from our accent that we were French, and conducted us across the lines,” here Claire breaks off with a heavy sigh, and Blanche kisses her tenderly and inquires what ails her.

“Can you ask? When you know I cannot tell if he is safe across the frontier, my valiant Raoul! Alas! alas! if he falls into Don Pedro’s hands! Oh, the noble heart!” and she puts her hands before her eyes to shut out the horrid image her fancy has called up. “When he gave his love to me, I told him he must save my queen, else I would never look at him!”

“But this is a fearful place!” cries Blanche in a louder voice, peeping out into the nave, the desolation of her position coming over her. “Do you hear that noise!” as a sudden echo rebounds from aisle to aisle. “I am sure there are spirits here,” and trembling all over, she clings to Claire.

“Be comforted, my queen. Some one will come. The priest who serves us is very kind, and he assured me of the favour of the chapter. Believe me, we shall not be forgotten. Collect yourself, dear princess. You know what Raoul said of Don Enrique?”

“Oh, I am dead of cold and fright!” answers Blanche, bursting into tears. “I care not if I die--one stab and all is over! I dream every night of Don Pedro, a dagger in his hand, and just as I am about to escape, the point falls here,” and she lays her hand upon her neck. “I know it will end so. All die who offend Don Pedro.”

“See!” cries Claire, as the darkness enveloping the lengthening lines of the gigantic pillars lifts, and a glint of light strikes like living fire on the famous statue of the Virgin, recovered from the Moors by San Fernando, seated upon an altar on a silver throne, and glittering with jewels, an exquisite canopy of fretted pinnacles of saints shrouding it, “See! the Holy Mother herself has come to comfort us.”