demanded by their country and their homes, to their families and
themselves. And this man was snatched from them, not alone by the
ruthless hand of death, but by midnight murder. Was it marvel, the
very grief his loss occasioned should rouse to wildest fury men's
passions against his murderer?

It was the evening of the fifth day after the murder, that with a
degree of splendor and of universal mourning, unrivalled before in the
interment of any subject, the body of Ferdinand Morales was committed
to the tomb. The King himself, divested of all insignia of royalty,
bareheaded, and in a long mourning cloak, headed the train of chief
mourners, which, though they counted no immediate kindred, numbered
twenty or thirty of the highest nobles, both of Arragon and Castile.
The gentlemen, squires, and pages of Morales' own household followed:
and then came on horse and on foot, with arms reversed, and lowered
heads, the gallant troops who had so often followed Morales to
victory, and under him had so ably aided in placing Isabella on her
throne; an immense body of citizens, all in mourning, closed the
procession. Every shop had been closed, every flag half-masted;
and every balcony, by which the body passed, hung with black. The
cathedral church was thronged, and holy and thrilling the service
which consigned dust to dust, and hid for ever from the eyes of his
fellow men, the last decaying remains of one so universally beloved.
The coffin of ebony and silver, partly open, so as to disclose the
face of the corpse, as was customary with Catholic burials of those of
high or priestly rank, and the lower part covered with a superb velvet
pall, rested before the high altar during the chanted service; at the
conclusion of which the coffin was closed, the lid screwed down, and
lowered with slow solemnity into the vault beneath. A requiem, chanted
by above a hundred of the sweetest and richest voices, sounding in