He sunk on the
nearest seat, and, with a shuddering groan, pressed both hands before
his eyes.
"Wine! wine! give him wine!" cried Ferdinand impetuously, pushing a
brimming goblet towards him. "Drink, man, and speak, in Heaven's name.
What frightful object hast thou seen, to bid thee quail, who never
quailed before? Where is Morales? Hast thou found him?"
"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.
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