"Lord," he was answered coldly by one of them, "no such election
is possible or lawful."

"Do you dare stand before my face, and tell me this?" he roared,
infuriated by their cold resistance. He flung out an arm in a
gesture of terrible dismissal. "Out of my sight, you proud and
evil men! Back to your cells, to await my pleasure. Since in your
arrogant, stiff-necked pride you refuse to do my will, you shall
receive the bishop I shall myself select."

He was so terrific in his rage that they dared not tell him that
he had no power, prince though he might be, to make such an
election, bowed to him, ever impassively, and with their hands
still folded, unhurried as they had come, they now turned and
filed past him in departure.

He watched them with scowling brows and tightened lips, Moniz and
Nunes silent behind him. Suddenly those dark, watchful eyes of
his were held by the last figure of all in that austere
procession--a tall, gaunt young man, whose copper-coloured skin
and hawk-featured face proclaimed his Moorish blood. Instantly,
maliciously, it flashed through the prince's boyish mind how he
might make of this man an instrument to humble the pride of that
insolent clergy. He raised his hand, and beckoned the cleric to
him.

"What is your name?" he asked him.

"I am called Zuleyman, lord," he was answered, and the name
confirmed--where, indeed, no confirmation was necessary--the