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An immense crowd, one bright day in summer, were assembled in the place of execution. A shout of savage exultation rent the air as Roderigo Calderon, Marquis de Siete Iglesias, appeared upon the scaffold But, when the eyes of the multitude rested–not upon that lofty and stately form, in all the pride of manhood, which they had been accustomed to associate with their fears of the stern genius and iron power of the favourite–but upon a bent and spectral figure, that seemed already on the verge of a natural grave, with a face ploughed deep with traces of unutterable woe, and hollow eyes that looked with dim and scarce conscious light over the human sea that murmured and swayed below, the tide of the popular emotion changed; to rage and triumph succeeded shame and pity. Not a hand was lifted up in accusation–not a voice was raised in rebuke or joy. Beside Calderon stood the appointed priest, whispering cheer and consolation.

“Fear not, my son,” said the holy man. “The pang of the body strikes years of purgatory from thy doom. Think of this, and bless even the agony of this hour.”

“Yes,” muttered Calderon; “I do bless this hour. Inez, thy daughter has avenged thy murder! May Heaven accept the sacrifice! and may my eyes, even athwart the fiery gulf, awaken upon thee!”

With that a serene and contented smile passed over the face on which the crowd gazed with breathless awe. A minute more, and a groan, a cry, broke from that countless multitude; and a gory and ghastly head, severed from its trunk, was raised on high.

Two spectators of that execution were in one of the balconies that commanded a full view of its terrors.

“So perishes my worst foe!” said Uzeda.

“We must sacrifice all things, friends as foes, in the ruthless march of the Great Cause,” rejoined the Grand Inquisitor; but he sighed as he spoke.

“Guzman is now with the king,” said Uzeda, turning into the chamber. “I expect every instant a summons into the royal presence.”

“I cannot share thy sanguine hopes, my son,” said Aliaga, shaking his head. “My profession has made me a deep reader of human character. Gaspar de Guzman will remove every rival from his path.”

While he spoke, there entered a gentleman of the royal chamber. He presented to the Grand Inquisitor and the expectant duke two letters signed by the royal hand. They were the mandates of banishment and disgrace. Not even the ghostly rank of the Grand Inquisitor, not even the profound manoeuvres of the son of Lerma, availed them against the vigilance and vigour of the new favourite. Simultaneously, a shout from the changeable crowd below proclaimed that the king’s choice of his new minister was published and approved.

And Aliaga and Uzeda exchanged glances that bespoke all the passions that make defeated ambition the worst fiend, as they heard the mighty cry, “LONG LIVE OLIVAREZ THE REFORMER!”

That cry came, faint and muffled, to the ears of Philip the Fourth, as he sate in his palace with his new minister. “Whence that shout?” said the king, hastily.

“It rises, doubtless, from the honest hearts of your loyal people at the execution of Calderon.”

Philip shaded his face with his hand, and mused a moment: then, turning to Olivarez with a sarcastic smile, he said: “Behold the moral of the life of a courtier, count! What do they say of the new opera?”

At the close of his life, in disgrace and banishment, the count-duke, for the first time since they had been uttered, called to his recollection those words of his royal master.

‘The fate of Calderon has given rise to many tales and legends. Amongst those who have best availed themselves of so fruitful a subject may be ranked the late versatile and ingenious Telesforo de Trueba, in his work on “The Romances of Spain.” In a few of the incidents, and in some of the names, his sketch, called “The Fortunes of Calderon,” has a resemblance to the story just concluded. The plot, characters, and principal events, are, however, widely distinct in our several adaptations of an ambiguous and unsatisfactory portion of Spanish history.