On it went, through streets so narrow that the tall grey houses – to which the smell of sea and harbour clung – seemed to meet over the cobbles. At the head of this company of horsemen rode a young man of medium height and of kingly bearing. His complexion was fresh and tanned by exposure to the wind and sun; his features were well formed, his teeth exceptionally white, and the hair, which grew far back from his forehead, was light brown with a gleam of chestnut. When any of his companions addressed him, it was with the utmost respect. He was some twenty-two years old, already a warrior and a man of experience, and only in the determination that all should respect his dignity did he betray his youth. He turned to the man who rode beside him. ‘How she suffered, this city!’ he said. ‘It is true, Highness. I heard from the lips of the King, your father, that when he entered after the siege he could scarce refrain from weeping – such terrible sights met his eyes.’ Ferdinand of Aragon nodded grimly.
