Los Hermanos Carvajales

I hope you like stories. Specifically, I hope that you like legends. I’m kind of a sucker for tall tales. They tell you a lot about a place. Spain is absolutely full of them, once you start looking. I guess it comes from being such an old country with an already romantic history.

A lot of these legends are very local. By that I mean they’re all about a very specific place, and you may not come across them unless you happen to go there. Some of the better known ones are probably the ones about the Alhambra, as presented in Washington Irving’s Tales of the Alhambra (Fantastic book, I highly recommend it.) Jaén province has got some of it’s own, too. You’ve probably already read all about the Lagarto of Jaén on Dietrich’s blog back in November, so I won’t bother to repeat it here.

Instead I want to talk about Martos’ main claim to fame: the story of the Hermanos Carvajales. The short version goes something like this… These two noble brothers were accused of the murder of one of the favored members of King Fernando IV’s court. Around the same time, they left for Martos, and the King found them there and arrested them out of fear that they were fomenting an uprising against him (Spanish royalty came and went pretty quickly back then). Without a trial, he ordered them to be executed. They insisted on their innocence to the very end, and summoned him to appear before a tribunal of heaven 30 days later. Fernando IV had them placed in a cage with inward-facing spikes and tossed from the top of the Peña. The cage rolled down the hill and came to rest at a place not far from our apartment, which was marked with a pillar and topped with a cross. The Cruz del Lloro (“The Cross of Tears”), as it’s called, is still there today, in the middle of a roundabout.

Thirty days later, as the brothers had promised, the King fell suddenly ill and died in his tent on the battlefield in 1312. For this reason, Fernando IV is known as “The Summoned King.” The Brothers Carvajal are buried at the Church of Santa Marta here in Martos, in the old quarter of town. Their resting place is marked by an old plaque in the corner.

Pretty much everyone in Martos knows this story, which I think is pretty cool. There are a few variations, of course. The one that I’ve written above is the most common one. No one seems to doubt that they existed and were executed. Some argue that the man they supposedly killed was Fernando’s secret lover. Others point out that this was not a common method of execution, at least for nobility, and the place where the Cruz del Lloro is today marks a spot that used to be an execution spot outside of town. Other versions of the story leave the cage out – which, after having looked down the Peña’s front side myself, seems even more gruesome. Imagine the cleanup!

One of the most fairy-tale-ish versions I’ve seen comes from a book called The Romance of History: Spain, written by Joaquín Telesforo de Trueba y Cosío (a good old Spanish name if ever there was one), published in 1834. All three volumes of this book are public domain, and available in a variety of formats on the Internet Archive. If you like this sort of thing, as I do, it’s probably worth the download (for all three volumes, click on the author’s name link). For your reading pleasure, I’ve taken the liberty of excerpting the full story of the Hermanos Carvajales here below the fold, as well as a few photos.

The Brothers Carvajal

But Heaven hath pleased it so,
To punish me with this, and this with me
That I must be their scourge and minister:
I will bestow him, and will answer well
The death I gave him.

Shakspeare.

It was one of the darkest nights ever known; the wind howled dismally, and a furious storm which had deluged the streets of Valencia rendered them solitary. Not a single human being was seen about, except a wretched beggar, who had taken refuge under the porch of a mansion near the palace ; but the inclemency of the weather was such that, despite of the hardships to which the houseless wanderer had been accustomed, he could not obtain a moment of slumber. He therefore beguiled his time by watching the rain as it fell, and indulging in speculations which were not perhaps of the most holy description. The storm at length subsided; the wind began to assuage its violence, and nothing remained of the previous elemental tumult, except an awful and almost ominous darkness.

At this moment the mendicant perceived two figures dimly moving from the opposite side, and approaching the place where he lay, crouching like a dog in his lair. Upon a nearer inspection he perceived that they were those of men, closely enveloped in their cloaks. The obscurity, however, which prevailed, did not allow him to recognise their features, though they now stood close to the porch, where they remained as if in expectation of some event. The beggar’s suspicions were awakened when he beheld two mysterious personages posted in so strange a manner at that time of night; but he was in the state in which a man has nothing to apprehend from robbers, and accordingly, instead of fear, curiosity only was excited in his breast. The strangers seemed resolved not to quit their post, and the prior occupant of the porch was equally determined to observe all their motions.

“He cannot have left the place yet,” said one of the strangers; “it is hardly eleven, and, besides, the storm must have hindered him from attempting to quit the palace and regain his dwelling.”

“Why, in troth,” returned the other, “it is a most unceremonious night, but most fit for our purpose. Do you know that I once began to apprehend that our ministry would be needless, seeing that the end of the world was approaching?”

“It was an awful storm, but it has produced the good effect of rendering the streets of Valencia most conveniently solitary. Why, if our intentions had been known, the weather could not have better favoured our designs.”

A clock struck the eleventh hour; the nocturnal ramblers made a movement, and one of them observed —

“Now let us approach the palace; otherwise the traitor may escape. Keep yourself in readiness, and let us advance.”

As he said this, they proceeded cautiously and slowly towards the palace, which was at a short distance.

“Holy Saint Joseph!” muttered the beggar, crossing himself, “what can those worthy cavaliers be after? — no saintly work, I trow: surely they don’t mean to murder King Ferdinand! that truly would be a pity, for he is very young; though, by the by, I ought not to take much interest in him, for they say he is a terrible glutton, and I am always starving. But, let me see — should I not, like a good subject, sound the alarm? No, no! what business have I to interfere in matters that don’t concern me? Why, if the King is killed, there will be another provided for us, and it is most certain that I shall remain exactly as I was before; besides, I must look to my own safety before all things, and should my clamorous mouth commit any indiscretion, it is more than probable that those adventuresome cavaliers would treat me to the favours with which they intend to regale my betters.

Whilst the tattered tenant of the porch was indulging in these wise and prudential speculations the two individuals had approached the palace. The darkness, however, was so intense as to prevent the beggar from farther observation of them. A few moments elapsed, and a low rumbling noise was heard, which was followed by a sort of grappling, which terminated in a deep, painful moan, like that of a man wounded to death.

“Heaven defend us!” muttered the beggar, “they have done the business, and some unworthy Christian is sent to his last account. May God forgive his soul! for there is no doubt it stands in want of forgiveness; and now let me be careful that I am not placed in a situation to need a similar pardon.”

The two men hurried back, and took shelter under the porch.

“Let us seek refuge here,” said one, in an agitated tone of voice. “A pursuit would commence, if we fled; though the streets are solitary, we might perchance meet some man, and — —”

“But think you,” returned the other, “that this porch will prove a competent place of safety?”

“Yes; the darkness of the night impedes the perception of an object at the smallest distance.”

“So it does,” quoth the beggar to himself, as he endeavoured to crouch closer, and render himself as small as possible.

“But, should a search be commenced?” muttered one of the assassins.

“Hush! they will never suppose that we are so near. Let us keep quiet, and there is no danger of our being taken.”

“But do you think that the blow was so well struck as to insure the death of the victim?”

“My arm is no puny weapon, and my wrongs most efficiently seconded my strength. Fear not — our enemy hath but few moments to live.”

“Thank Heaven, we are amply revenged!”

“Yes, and Carvajal has the only bar to his happiness removed.”

A great rumour and confusion was now heard at the entrance of the palace; torches were seen, by the reflection of which, despite of the wind which now and then extinguished them, a great concourse of people became obscurely perceptible.

“Upon second thoughts,” said one of the ruffians, ” we should act more prudently in quitting this place; those fatal lights may prove our ruin.”

“Yes,” continued the other. “Besides, the first disorder having once subsided, they will begin a strict search.”

They now hastily, though cautiously, left their lurking-place, and sought safety in speedy flight.

“Blessed St. Joseph!” muttered the beggar, in amazement, “who could have supposed that the brothers Carvajal would turn midnight murderers! — Well, there is no knowing what men may come to. After what I have seen to-night, I should not be surprised if I myself should become a dishonourable character.”

By this time lights were approaching towards the porch.

“This way the assassins must have fled,” said a voice.

“Search well every place,” cried another; “leave not the smallest nook unexplored: owing to the darkness of the night, perchance the villains would rather trust to concealment than flight.”

“I see some one crouching in that porch,” quoth the first speaker; ” examine it well — for my part, I
think it is a dog.”

“And a most miserable one,” thought the beggar.

“Yes, it is a dog; but we may as well look closer.”

They advanced nearer.

“Just Heavens! it is a man! Here is one of the assassins! Ay, ay, he feigns to be asleep; but it won’t serve him. Holy Virgin! what a murderous, villanous appearance, the rascally miscreant has! Secure him! — no doubt he is the murderer.”

“Holla! Master, get up — get up!” cried another, “ere I make thee spring like quicksilver, with a gentle insinuation of my pike. What an ingenious scoundrel he is! — see the bed he has chosen for such a night as this!”

The beggar, no ways pleased at the turn which affairs had taken, now rose, and began to expostulate with his captors. “Good caballeros,” he cried, in a whining tone, “as ye hope for salvation, do not be rash. Let me set you to rights. I am no assassin, but a poor mendicant; and with regard to my bed, I swear to you, gentlemen, it is no matter of choice; for I would have most willingly preferred a better, if I could have found it.”

“Come, come, thou wretched sinner, do not attempt to cajole us; we have a keen scent in tracing out a villanous dog.”

“Good sirs, I don’t mean to contradict the goodness of your nose; but, upon my soul, I can assure you that this time, at least, your sagacious nostrils are at fault. I am as innocent as the child unborn, so Heaven keep me in its grace!”

“It won’t do, sir villain! thy foolery won’t deceive us, and thou must follow us. Secure his arms, my good companions.”

“Arms! Heaven bless me, I have no arms!”

“No buffoonery, sirrah! — bind him well.”

“Oh! sirs! treat me with a little more mercy, and I think I shall be able to discover the assassins.”

“Ay, ay, I think we have discovered one already. However, any farther information must be given before the King.”

“The King! why, is he alive? — Heaven be blessed!”

“What is the rascal at? — Yes, the King is alive; sound in body and mind, to see thee made dog’s meat of.”

“Nay, I am willing to confess all I know.”

“Confess! Ay, that thou shalt; for if thy tongue is not as sufficiently nimble in that matter as in others, we have some ingenious machines to improve its functions. Bring him along!”

The party, with feelings of triumph, conducted the beggar to the palace, which was thrown into great excitement upon their arrival. “The assassin is secured!” cried various voices; and every one was eager to obtain a sight of the ruffian.

They led him into the hall to confront him with the dying man. This precaution, however, came too late. When the supposed murderer was placed before the victim, he was already a lifeless corpse. The person who had been so treacherously slain, was a young and gallant cavalier, of an illustrious lineage, and the favourite of the King. His name was Benavides, and his family, which had rendered some services to Ferdinand, were held in great esteem by him, especially the murdered cavalier, who was admitted to his most intimate and familiar companionship. This circumstance rendered his loss doubly to be regretted by the King, who made a vow to be most active in the pursuit of the guilty, and most merciless in inflicting a fearful retribution. When Benavides was raised from the ground, he was so far advanced in the path to the grave, that the only discovery he could make was, that he was murdered by two individuals. Shortly after, he expired; and the King, in a mood of mingled rage and affliction, stood by his side, making vows of terrible import. Several parties had gone in the pursuit of the murderers, and after a short time had elapsed, the one that brought the beggar made its appearance.

The apprehension of this man afforded some consolation to the sorrowing Ferdinand; for, although no trace of guilt was seen upon him, save that of having been found crouched under a porch at night, yet, as he offered to make some discoveries, he thought that his object would be fulfilled.

“Dost thou know this murdered cavalier?” inquired the King of the prisoner, with a terrible frown.

“Yes, my liege!” answered the beggar. “It is the noble Don Benavides; I have seen him many a time, and have often experienced his charity.”

“What ‘s thy name?”

“Diego Raposo, please your Highness.”

“And how came you to be lurking about at this hour of the night?”

“Because I have nowhere to go for shelter.”

“And what is it you know about this murder?”

“That the brothers Carvajal are the authors of it!”

The King started at the name: it awoke in his mind associations far from pleasing, to judge from the forbidding expression which suddenly overspread his countenance. Diego Raposo then entered into a detailed account of the adventure which has been narrated above, and the apprehensions of the King, who in the greatest excitement cast a mournful look on his dead friend, were confirmed.

“My brave Benavides,” he said, “rest in peace, and be satisfied that thy unmanly murder shall be amply and most deeply avenged.”

He then commanded Diego Raposo to be kept in custody, and gave immediate orders for the apprehension of the brothers Carvajal. The Carvajales were two young cavaliers of noble birth and connexions, but whom the King did not regard with any friendly feeling, chiefly because they were obnoxious to his favourite Benavides. A family feud appears to have existed between the parties, but it was insinuated that several other reasons strengthened their hostile sentiments. The high degree of favour which Benavides enjoyed from the King could not but excite the jealousy of other noblemen; and it was reported that no one was more galled than the Carvajales. Besides, the elder Carvajal felt the most violent passion for Doña Violante, the sister of Benavides; a passion which, though returned by the lady, was strenuously opposed by her brother. He had indeed, on repeated occasions, shown his dislike for Carvajal, and even prohibited Doña Violante from holding farther intercourse with him; but these orders, as it may be supposed, were not very scrupulously obeyed by the young lady. One day a serious quarrel had taken place on this account, and the two foes were on the point of proceeding to violence, when they were happily prevented by interfering friends. Carvajal, however, made vows of revenge, and Benavides, burning with equal animosity, only awaited another opportunity to give it vent. All these circumstances strongly influenced the mind of the King and his courtiers in forming their opinion of the murder, and, added to what Diego Raposo related, they formed a fearful presumptive evidence against the Carvajales.

On the very morning preceding the night on which the murder of Benavides was committed, the elder Carvajal had been seen patrolling near his garden. The constant attendance of Benavides at the palace generally afforded him an opportunity of seeing his beloved Violante, and he now proposed to her to take a determined step and free herself from the dominion of her brother. But he had met his mistress more agitated than ever. She started in alarm upon his arrival, and with tears in her eyes besought him to depart.

“My noble friend,” said she, with much emotion, “fate has decreed that our happiness shall not be accomplished. Even this very moment I tremble for your safety — fly from the city ere all possibility of escape is denied you.”

“Thy fears, sweet Violante,” answered Carvajal, with a smile, “greatly magnify the danger. I apprehend no surprisal, and, at all events, my trusty sword never quits my side.”

“Oh! speak not those words — think that it is a brother, my sole protector in this world, against whom those unholy thoughts are entertained. Let me counsel you.”

“What!” cried Carvajal, impatiently, “am I to be tamely enduring the haughty scorn of that proud cavalier, because he is your brother? In sooth, this privilege has saved him more than once from my justly-provoked indignation; but the forbearance of a nobleman must have its limits, more particularly when it encroaches upon his honour; and my honour is deeply suffering from the repeated slights of Benavides. To terminate our unfortunate family feud, have I not nobly offered to bury all past scenes in oblivion by becoming your husband? and how have my proposals been treated by your arrogant brother? I shame to say it — even with contempt — and why? — Is the blood that circulates in his veins more pure, more noble, than mine? — No. Do I yield to him in the elevated qualities of an honourable cavalier? — No, no, Heaven forefend! Whence, then, his insulting pride? From the favouritism of a weak monarch, whose minion and companion in debauchery he does not scruple to be. Fine titles, indeed, to reject the alliance of Carvajal!”

“Calm your feelings, my dear friend,” said Violante, interposing: “that you have much cause for resentment, I readily admit; but I always tremble when I consider the mournful results to which that resentment may lead you. Know that the danger which surrounds you is increased tenfold; this very morning, my brother, ere he set out for the palace, gave me fatal hints of some plan in contemplation against your and your brother’s liberty. Your having seconded the pretensions of Don Alonzo de la Corda, when he contended for the crown, is not yet forgotten by the King, however policy may have prevented him from giving vent to his vindictive feelings. Ah! he only wants a specious pretence for the indulgence of his revenge, and that pretext your violent temper will not be long in affording. My brother, on his side, will exert all his endeavours to work thy ruin: let me, therefore, advise you to absent yourself from Valencia for some time; and remain assured my love shall experience no diminution.”

“How often have you pressed the odious subject upon my unwilling heart! The idea of leaving you exposed to the caprices of your brother, conveys more terror to my imagination than the combined wrath of that brother, and the King, whose favourite he is. Yet, to calm thy fears, I will at last consent. Yes, I will consent,” he added in a fearful tone of voice; “but, so God help me! I will some day have ample revenge for the wrongs I am compelled to suffer.”

“Oh! speak not thus! Think, that while your heart meditates those fatal plans of revenge, it is against the heart of her thou lovest you prepare them — thy enemy is my brother. Oh! my own Carvajal, let the entreaties of Violante have some power in softening the stern purposes of thy soul. Retire but for three months from Valencia, and all will go well.”

“Yes,” resumed Carvajal in the same ominous tone, “I will quit this odious town; but, mayhap, Violante may rue the day when she counselled my departure. Farewell! God alone can know if we shall meet again in this world.”

“Oh, my friend! my own lord! those fearful words fill me with horror! Some rash, desperate attempt occupies thy mind. Stay — oh! stay, for I would rather bear the brunt of my brother’s anger than see you leave me in this distressing
manner.”

“Farewell, Violante,” repeated Carvajal, a little softened, “it is well we should separate — Heaven knows where my justly indignant heart might lead me! Fare thee well!”

As he said this, in a hurried manner he quitted her presence. Poor Violante remained plunged in a mood of bitterest affliction — there was something so painful, so ominous, in the tone and manner of her lover, that her heart was filled with the darkest apprehensions.

Carvajal, upon quitting his mistress, speedily repaired to his brother, to whom he was devotedly attached, and who returned his friendship with an equal warmth of regard.

“Alonzo,” he said, in some emotion, “I will at length follow thy advice, and quit this hateful city.”

“Thank Heaven, dear brother, thy good sense has triumphed at last over thy unfortunate passion. I always confided in the generous pride of thy heart, which, however enthralled it might for some time be by the shackles of love, would, I knew, at length break them, when they essayed to impose an equal slavery upon thy better spirit. The haughty Benavides should never have had it in his power so to humiliate the Carvajales. But, however, I will not upbraid you for what is past; let us rather think of more suitable plans for the future. When shall we leave Valencia ?”

“This very night,” answered Carvajal, “I am anxious to depart. Our course must be directed to Toro, where the greatest number of our adherents and partisans are to be found. The King may be tempted to persecute us, and we must place ourselves in a state of vigorous defence.”

“Strange words these, brother,” said the younger Carvajal: “dost thou apprehend any hostile design from Ferdinand?”

“I know not what I think, nor what I utter — my mind is a chaos of contending sentiments. Love, revenge, shame, disappointment, alternately distract my soul. Oh, my good brother! were it not for thy protecting company, I should hurry to some desperate course. Benavides must not insult the Carvajales with impunity.”

“Benavides,” answered Alonzo, “shall meet his retribution when he least expects it. Trust me, Carvajal, ’tis no slight offence to be the minion of a king. There are so many interested in the downfall and death of a favourite, that —

“Hold, brother! there comes our enemy.”

Benavides passed the brothers, casting upon them a look of deep scorn; the elder Carvajal laid his hand on his weapon, but his brother restrained his anger.

“Not yet, brother, not yet; reserve thyself for a fitter opportunity.”

The account which the beggar Diego Raposa had given the King, added to several other particulars which every moment came to light, fully established the guilt of the Carvajales. But nothing was so prejudicial to their cause as their flight. Upon the arrival of the King’s message to apprehend them, they learnt that the brothers were nowhere to be found; the most diligent search was made in the city of Valencia, and the neighbouring villas and mansions, but without effect. Violante, in an agony of despair, as soon as the horrid fate of her brother was made known to her, unfolded, as in duty bound, the conversation which had passed between her and the elder Carvajal, on the morning preceding the murder of Benavides.

The mysterious words of her cruel lover, together with every other circumstance already detailed, removed any remaining doubt concerning the perpetrators of the atrocious deed; and not only the King, but even those who were favourably disposed towards the Carvajales, evinced their indignation against the delinquent brothers. Ferdinand’s feelings were powerfully wrought upon. His affection for the murdered Benavides was sincere, and the untimely fate of that cavalier seemed to have rendered him more dear to his royal friend. But the King had other motives, and motives of a political tendency, to be indefatigable in his exertions to obtain the apprehension of the Carvajales. He had all along cherished a rancorous hatred towards that family for their well-known attachment to the party that upheld the pretensions of Don Alonzo de la Corda to the throne. Ferdinand had resolved to pardon the vanquished party, but could not forget those who had been his enemies. He was always in a mood of distrust, and indeed in this was partly justified by the turbulent nature of those times, when struggles for the crown of Castile were so common, that it sufficed if the pretender had the mere shadow of a claim to it, and wealth enough to support his pretensions, to find numerous supporters among the people.

Under such circumstances it is not surprising that the King was in hourly apprehension of a renewal of disturbances, and that he should look with an eye of jealousy on those individuals whom he knew were ever ready to dispute his authority. Of these the brothers Carvajal were two of the most conspicuous; and Ferdinand having now, on account of their crime, more than sufficient reason to cause their death, without any danger of incurring the just resentment of their partisans, turned his thoughts exclusively upon the accomplishment of their doom. His endeavours, however, to capture the brothers proved for some time totally abortive. Their departure from Valencia had been so precipitate and secret, that no one could form an idea of the place to which they had fled for refuge. It was, however, generally believed that they had retreated into Portugal, as King Dionysius had always countenanced the disturbers of the peace of Castile.

In this state of uncertainty some time elapsed, till at length intelligence was brought to Ferdinand that the brothers were residing at Martos, a place noted for the spirit of revolt which governed its inhabitants. The report also, that the Laras had been of late in that town and its district, awakened the just alarm of the King. He conceived that some new plot was in contemplation, and that the Carvajales were two of its principal agents. He accordingly determined to surprise them before they had time to gather sufficient strength to carry their rebellious designs into effect; and hastily collected about a thousand of his most devoted adherents, amongst which he took the prudent care of numbering the relatives and friends of the murdered Benavides; and while he had it reported that he was returning to Seville, he secretly directed
his course towards Martos.

His appearance in this place was so sudden and unexpected, that the first intelligence which the brothers Carvajal had of his arrival was from those who came to apprehend them; they were surprised quietly sitting at table with their friends, and, to their amazement, they found the apartment quickly filled with armed men, some of whom immediately proceeded to secure them.

“What temerity is this!” cried the elder Carvajal, indignantly. “Who dares attempt thus to affront — by what authority burst you thus upon our privacy?”

“By the King’s!” sternly answered Don Mendo Benavides, a cousin of the deceased. “All attempt at resistance is vain; therefore, prepare to come before his Highness, without opposition.”

“And what may be the good pleasure of King Ferdinand with us?” inquired Alonzo Carvajal, with a bitter smile.” Methinks he might have hit upon a more courteous manner of sending an invitation.”

“The invitation is most fit for the guests,” scornfully returned Benavides. “Soldiers, take charge of your prisoners.”

“Prisoners, by order of the King!” exclaimed one of the Laras present; “what crime is imputed to my noble friends?”

“Ah! Señor de Lara,” quoth Benavides, “dost thou feel some pangs of conscience? These clandestine meetings at Martos purport no good to the state; but, happily, Ferdinand is as sagacious as he is brave, and the machinations of turbulent plotters are completely overturned by his sudden arrival at Martos.”

“Plotters!” cried Lara, proudly; “in troth, if such were the characters which we had assumed, our sagacity would have been at least equal to that of the King, which so much excites your wonder. The man is a liar and a foul slanderer that dares throw any imputation upon our conduct at Martos.”

“We come not to discuss the point,” interrupted Benavides, “but to conduct two dark criminals before the King, that they may receive the sentence due to their guilt.”

“Guilt!” exclaimed Carvajal.

“Thy memory is, forsooth, most negligent,” cried Benavides, with irony; “but I shall be kind enough to refresh it. Yes, noble cavaliers,” he added, turning to the company, “these brave knights are guilty of a base and cowardly murder !”

“Blasted be the tongue that pronounces the foul slander!” exclaimed the brothers, fiercely.

Much confusion ensued the announcement of so dark an accusation. Every one of the guests had surmised that the guilt imputed to the Carvajales was of a political nature. None of them could suppose the brothers capable of so atrocious a deed as murder; and though obscure rumours had reached some of them concerning the mysterious death of Benavides, and the suspicion which pointed out the delinquents, they had indignantly discarded such ideas from their minds. But now strange misgivings arose, for they could not imagine that the King would take the violent measure they had witnessed, without sufficient ground to justify it.

The excitement produced at Martos by the imprisonment of the Carvajales, was very great. The circumstances adduced against them served fully to establish their guilt; and though some harboured feelings of pity towards them, all were unanimous as to the justice of the King’s conduct. The brothers stoutly denied any participation in the horrid act; but their protestations weighed lightly against the load of evidence brought to condemn them.

The Carvajales appeared before the King with a fearless demeanour, which some interpreted as the calmness of innocence, but most as the callous apathy of crime. Ferdinand, as soon as he saw them, intimated to them the guilt of which they stood charged.

“Sir King, we call Heaven to witness our innocence; where is our accuser? Let him appear, that we may confound the wretch.”

As there was no real accuser, Diego Raposo, the beggar, was brought forward to give his evidence. Yet he could not positively swear that the Carvajales were the murderers, though the two men he had seen under the porch resembled them much in stature and voice. Other witnesses were produced, who related many facts tending to confirm the animosity which had existed between the brothers and Benavides. When the whole sum of evidence was set before the Carvajales, the elder, in a stern and angry tone, exclaimed —

“Just Heavens! and are two noble cavaliers to stand an ignominious trial, upon so slight a plea, that not even an accuser is found to prefer the charge? Oh! King, however hostile the feelings thou mayest entertain against the family of Carvajal — however base the opinion that thou hast of two honourable cavaliers — thinkest thou also that we are cowards, and that we stood in so much dread of the prowess of Benavides, as to have recourse to so vile a means of indulging our revenge? Could we not have provoked an open quarrel? Was his arm stronger than mine? — his heart more courageous? Why kill him treacherously in the darkness of night, when I could with equal facility have effected my purpose openly in the light of day?”

“Because thou didst tremble at the consequences,” replied the King; “because thou knewest full well the favour which the unfortunate Benavides enjoyed with the King: thy guilt is fully proved, and thy defence, despite of its ingenuity, cannot turn the balance in favour of thy innocence. No, traitors! you are convicted of a dark — a degrading crime; and this only was wanted to fill up the measure of your turbulent career. Already had my generosity pardoned you a hundred political delinquencies. Your rebellious spirit, your continual caballing with the enemies of my crown, had already given me just ground to consign you to a well-merited doom; but I was merciful, imprudently merciful towards inveterate offenders; but now considerations of prudence and pity must give way, and it only remains to pronounce your sentence.”

“Pronounce our sentence!” cried the younger Carvajal; “our criminality is not yet proved.”

“Hold, assassin!” fiercely exclaimed the King. “What other proofs do we want to convince even the most sceptical? Your known hatred to Benavides — the different times that the elder Carvajal has been heard to utter threats of vengeance against his foe — the mysterious words which he spoke upon taking leave of his sister, as he said, for ever — the traced resemblance between you and the murderers — the fatal words which Diego Raposo heard you pronounce under the porch immediately after the commission of the crime: Carvajal has now the only bar to his happiness removed — your precipitate and unexpected flight from Valencia at the time of the murder — the words of a dying Benavides implying fearful suspicion — his opposition to the union of Carvajal with his sister Violante; — these, and several minor facts, afford ample proof to confirm your guilt, and now you must prepare to meet the award of justice. Take these wretches,” he then added, turning to his attendants, “to the high rock near this town, and precipitate them into the abyss below; that their unworthy bodies may be torn and mangled, and find no other tombs than the maws of ravenous birds! Take them hence immediately!”

This awful sentence produced a great sensation amongst the spectators of the scene. The brothers heard it with feelings of horror, but with a stern dignity of manner.

“Oh! thou merciless, unjust King,” indignantly cried Alonzo Carvajal, “all the circumstances which you have brought against us amount to presumptions only, but not to proofs. And are two noble cavaliers to be condemned to a horrid doom upon mere presumptions? Is the evidence of a wretched beggar, and words which might have been pronounced by others as well as by us, to determine our death? Oh! Ferdinand, pause a moment ere you rashly decide. In virtue of our rights as ricos-hombres of Castile, we plead to be judged by a competent body of our peers — we demand that a deliberate trial be commenced, and every means of defence allowed us, as in equity due; otherwise thou art guilty of a murder more foul than that of Benavides.”

“Lead them to execution,” cried Ferdinand hastily.

“”Tis well, thou unjust ruler of Castile — ’tis well,” cried the elder Carvajal proudly; “we are the victims of thy jealous fears. You wanted a pretext for our death — you have found it; and however weak and unfounded, you seize it eagerly to free yourself of men whom you hate, and whose attachment to your enemies renders them dangerous in your sight. Ay, we are murdered, inhumanly murdered; not for the death of Benavides — No; but for political motives which you consider necessary to the safety of thy crown. It is not our hatred to the house of Benavides that urges you, but our regard for that of La Corda. We are innocent of the murder of Benavides!” He then paused for an instant, but in an awful tone of voice continued — “Hear, oh! ruthless King! we summon thee to appear on the thirtieth day from this before the tribunal of Heaven, to answer for the injustice thou committest against two innocent and honourable cavaliers.”

Saying this, with a stately bearing he accompanied his guards towards the place of execution. A vast crowd followed the culprits, and the King, fearing some attempt to rescue them, ordered all the forces under his command to accompany the Carvajales to the fatal rock. Two or three ecclesiastics also attended them to administer the comforts of religion in their last moments. They used every means of persuasion — they promised heaven, and threatened eternal punishments, in order to persuade them to confess their guilt; but the brothers resolutely maintained their innocence, and arrived at the place of execution in a collected and dignified manner.

The sight of the high rock and the fearful precipice below, for a moment imparted a thrill of horror to the victims; but they soon recovered from the passing sensation, and regained their wonted composure. In this manner they ascended the dreadful spot, and were placed at the verge of the summit. They then knelt for a few moments, and seemed collected in prayer; after which they rose, and, having again declared their innocence, reiterated the awful summons which they had made to the King.

The elder Carvajal then took a scarf, and, putting it into the hands of the leader, who stood near, in a tone broken by emotion, said —

“Sir, as you are a noble and good cavalier, deliver this to Doña Violante Benavides, and assure her that her unfortunate lover persisted in his innocence until death. Tell her not to curse my memory, for it will not be long ere just Heaven will, in its mercy, vindicate it from the least aspersion.

Saying this, he dashed a tear from his eye, and approached his brother, who stood near, in a mood of mournful calmness. The two brothers then again protested their innocence, and, embracing in the tenderness of grief, locked as they were in each other’s arms, exclaimed that they were ready.

In an instant the executioner came forward, the clock struck twelve, and the brothers Carvajal were hurled from the fatal rock. A cry of horror burst from the spectators, and the sensation of awe was augmented when the victims were observed below, struggling in the agonies of death, still locked in each other’s arms!

The horror of their fate awoke some sentiments of pity amongst the crowd. Opinions were divided with regard to their innocence: some believed the protestations of the dying men; others considered them as the last struggles of cavaliers, who, however guilty, would never consent to acknowledge the stigma which would attach to their name. These several speculations gradually subsided, till at length most doubts were removed, and it was generally believed that the brothers had suffered justly. Nearly a month had elapsed from the day of execution, and the thoughts of the spectators of that horrid tragedy had turned upon very different subjects, when King Ferdinand began to complain of illness.

He was ordered to keep his bed. His malady increased; when, having inquired what day of the month it was from the death of the Carvajales, and being answered the thirtieth, a fearful gloom overspread his features, and he announced that his death was at hand. That very day, the 7th of September, 1312, Ferdinand the Fourth expired, on which account he was ever afterwards called el Emplazado, or the Summoned.

This singular death of the King produced an extraordinary sensation amongst his subjects. Every one remembered the awful summons of the brothers Carvajal, and every one saw the hand of Providence in the untimely fate of Ferdinand. One or two days previous to his death, a dispatch had been sent to him from Portugal, which, owing to the state of his health, had not been examined. Shortly after his death, however, it was broken open, when a letter was discovered containing a full account and confession of the murder of Benavides.

This had been committed by two individuals whom that proud lord had treated with scorn: they had sent a challenge, which he had contemptuously refused to accept, on the plea of their not being of gentle birth. This had taken place at Seville, shortly after the accession of Ferdinand; but the aggrieved persons, who were also of the party of La Corda, and by this means knew the Carvajales, went privately to Valencia, to wreak their vengeance on the enemy. The execution of those unfortunate brothers had been so sudden that their fate could not be averted by this late confession, which was only sent to vindicate their memory from the supposed guilt.

The sorrowing Doña Violante Benavides, who had still cherished a half-smothered affection for Carvajal, no sooner heard this vindication than all her former fondness returned. She tenderly kissed the scarf — that mournful gage of his last moments, and opposing the importunities of her relative Benavides, retired to conventual seclusion, where she terminated her melancholy days.