rm-beaten
coast. After the assassination of the unfortunate Blanche, the French
Queen whom he loathed with an extraordinary physical repulsion, Pedro
acknowledged a secret marriage with Maria de Padilla, which legitimised
her children; but for ten years before she had been treated with royal
rights. The historian says that she was very beautiful, but her especial
charm seems to have been that voluptuous grace which is characteristic
of Andalusian women. She was simple and pious, with a nature of great
sweetness, and she never abused her power; her influence, as runs the
hackneyed phrase, was always for good, and untiringly she did her
utmost to incline her despot lover to mercy. She alone sheds a ray of
light on Pedro's memory, only her love can save him from the execration
of posterity. When she died rich and poor alike mourned her, and the
king was inconsolable. He honoured her with pompous obsequies, and
throughout the kingdom ordered masses to be sung for the rest of her
soul.

* * *

The guardians of the Alcazar show you the chambers in which dwelt this
gracious lady, and the garden-fountain wherein she bathed in summer.
Moralists, anxious to prove that the way of righteousness is hard, say
that beauty dies, but they err, for beauty is immortal. The habitations
of a lovely woman never lose the enchantment she has cast over them, her
comeliness lingers in their empty chambers like a subtle odour; and
centuries after her very bones have crumbled to dust it is her presence
alone that is felt, her footfall that is heard on the marble floors.

Garish colours, alas! have driven the tender spirit of Maria de Padilla
from the royal palace, but it has betaken itself to the old garden, and
there wanders sadly. It is a charming place of rare plants and exotic
odours; cypress and tall palm trees rise towards the blue sky with their
irresistible melancholy, their far-away suggestion of burning deserts;
and at their feet the ground is carpeted with violets. Yet to me the
wild roses brought strangely recollections of England, of long summer
days when the air was sweet and balmy; the birds sang heavenly songs,
the same songs as they sing in June in the fat Kentish fields. The
gorgeous palace had only suggested the long past days of history, and
Seville the joy of life and the love of sunshine; but the old quiet
garden took me far away from Spain, so that I longed to be again in
England. In thought I wandered through a garden th