far removed from the excitement stirring
without, King Ferdinand was sitting, on the morning appointed for
Stanley's execution: several maps and plans were before him, over
which he appeared intently engaged; but every now and then his brow
rested on his hand, and his eyes wandered from their object; Isabella
was at work in a recess of the window near him, conversing on his
warlike plans, and entering warmly into all his measures, as he roused
himself to speak of them, or silent when she saw him sunk in thought.
The history of the period dwells with admiration on the domestic
happiness of Ferdinand and Isabella, and most refreshingly do such
annals stand forth amid the rude and stormy scenes, both in public and
private life, most usual to that age. Isabella's real influence on
the far less lofty and more crafty Ferdinand was so silent, so
unobtrusive, that its extent was never known, either to himself or
to her people, till after her death, when in Ferdinand's rapid
deterioration from the nobler qualities of earlier years, it was
traced too clearly, and occasioned her loss to be mourned, yet more
than at the moment of her death.

The hour of noon chimed, and Ferdinand, with unusual emotion, pushed
the papers from him.

"There goes the knell of as brave and true a heart as ever beat," he
said. "If he be innocent--as I believe him--may Heaven forgive his
murderer! Hark! what is that?" he continued hurriedly, as the last
chime ceased to vibrate; and, striding to the door of his cabinet he
flung it open and listened intently.

"Some one seeks the King! follow me, Isabel. By St. Francis, we may
save him yet!" he exclaimed, and rapidly threading the numerous
passages, in less than a minute he stood within the hall.

"Who wills speech of Ferdinand?" he demanded. "Let him step forth at
once and do his errand."

"I seek thee, King of Spain!" was the instant answer, and a young lad
in the white garb of a Benedictine novice, staggered forwards. "Arthur
Stanley is innocent! The real murderer is discovered; he lies at the
point of death sixty miles hence. Send--take his confession; but
do not wait for that. Fly, or it is too late. I see it--the axe is
raised--is flashing in the sun; oh, stop it ere it falls!" And with
the wild effort to loose the grasp of an old soldier, who more
supported than detained him, his exhausted strength gave way, and they
laid him, white, stiff, and speechless, on a settle near.

With his first wo