honour bestowed upon him by the king, or of some royal recompense for his services.

“What tidings from Don Roderich?” he asks.

“None, my lord,” is the answer. “I rode in haste away, without seeing the king. What I bear is a letter from the Lady Florinda.”

“Florinda—how fares she?”

“Well, my lord,” answers the page, as he takes the silken packet from his bosom.

Cutting the ribbon that binds it with his dagger, Julian reads the miserable lines; word after word brings a terrible certainty to his mind; he stands in speechless anguish, then, flinging the parchment from him, he folds his arms, while one by one the burning remembrance of each act of devotion to Roderich stings him to the soul. It is a terrible reckoning; a dark and malignant fury enters into his soul, not only against Roderich, but against all Spain, the scene of his dishonour, the home of his disgrace.

“And this,” cries he, when words come to his lips, “is my reward for serving a villain! This is the return he makes me for the hostage of my child! May I die a slave if I rest until I have given him full measure in return!”

CHAPTER IV

Don Julian Goes over to the Moors

“My curse rest on thee, Don Roderich!” are his words. “May desolation fall on thy dwelling and thy realm!”

Journeying on with Florinda, he came to a wild range of mountains near Consucara—still called the Mountain of Treason—where he meets his kinsman, Archbishop Opas, and his wife Frandina, a formidable amazon, who not only followed her lord in battle, but concentrated in herself all the duplicity of her brother.

She had long hated Roderich for his marriage with Egilona, now she could revenge herself.

“I would rather die,” she exclaims, as she gazed at Florinda, prostrate at her feet, “than submit to this outrage!”

“Be satisfied,” replies Don Julian; “she shall be avenged. Opas will bind our friends by dreadful oaths. I myself will go to Africa to seek great Mousa, and negotiate his aid.”

From Malaga Julian embarked for Africa with Frandina and Florinda, his treasure and his household, and ever since the gate in the city wall through which they passed has been called Puerta de la Cava (Gate of the Harlot), by which name the unhappy Florinda was known among the Moors.

The dark tents of the Moslems were spread in a pastoral valley at the foot of the billowy chain of hills which follow along the north of Barbary (as it was called of old), outshoots from the great Atlas range which towers in the far distance. A motley host from Egypt and Mauretania—Saracens, Tartars, Syrians, Copts, and Berbers,—all, Christian or Moslem, fair-skinned or negro, united under the banner of Mousa, Governor of North Africa for the Caliph of Damascus, a man long past middle life, but who concealed his years cunningly.

As Mousa sits to administer justice among the mixed tribes of his host, raised on a divan covered with sheep-skins, under a wide-spreading oak, near which a rapid streamlet runs down into the sea, the flag of Islam floating beside him, Tháryk, his lieutenant, on his right hand, a bugle sounds from above among the hills, and the gay apparel of a herald appears in the distance, attended by a single trumpeter. Cautiously descending the steep path among a forest-like grove, the herald, bearing on his tabard the Gothic arms, pauses at the base; the trumpeter sounds another loud blast, then both ride boldly into the circle gathered round Mousa. After an obeisance, responded to in silence by the astonished Moors, he speaks, lowering his cognisance before the chief: “I demand,” says he, “a safe passage for my master, Don Julian Espatorios of Spain, under King Roderich the Goth. Can he come without danger to life and limb and depart when he lists?”

To which Mousa, touching with the tips of his fingers the folds of the green turban which he wears, then carrying them down and crossing them on his chest, in an Eastern salute of ceremony replies:

“The demand of Don Julian is granted. Let my noble adversary advance without fear. So brave a leader shall eat of our salt were he ten times our foe.”

Clad in a complete suit of armour, and mounted on a powerful charger, Julian appears. A surcoat of black is over his armour, his legs are encased in fluted steel, and on his helmet rests a sable plume. Behind him rides his esquire, bearing his lance and shield. With grave courtesy he salutes the Moslem chiefs whom he has so lately defeated, then, upon the motion of Mousa, who rises at his approach, he dismounts, and, flinging the bridle to his esquire, takes the place assigned to him.

The deep-set eyes of Julian, for he wears his vizor raised, are fixed on the face of Mousa, who with the refinement of Eastern courtesy, affects to smile, although much exercised in his mind as to what motive can have induced his adversary thus voluntarily to place himself in his power. His lieutenant Tháryk, a rough warrior, gifted with little command over his countenance, glares at him meanwhile out of his single eye with unconcealed hatred.

An awkward pause follows, broken only by the low ripple of the brook, carolling swiftly over the glancing pebbles, which separates Julian from Mousa, thus as it were symbolising the position of the late combatants by its slender barrier. At last Julian speaks: “Hitherto, O Emir of the Faithful, we have met as enemies. Now I am come to offer you my country and my king. Country,” he repeats bitterly, as a dark frown overshadows his face, pale under his helmet, “I have none; Roderich the Goth is my deadliest enemy. He has blasted the honour of my name. Aid me, O Mousa, to revenge, and all Spain is in your hand.”

Not even the grave immobility of countenance in which the Moslem is trained to conceal his emotions could altogether prevent the movement of amazement with which this speech was received by Mousa and Tháryk and those around. What motive, however, was powerful enough to cause Julian thus to present himself in the face of the assembled chiefs of Islam mattered not to Mousa. Julian had spoken, and his heart leaped within him at the words. How often had he gazed on the low hills along the Spanish coast washed by the Straits! How often had he longed to possess himself of the fair plains lying beyond: a land rich with rivers and pastures, vines, olives, and pomegranates, splendid cities and castles, flowing with milk and honey—and now it was his own! But, wary by nature, and cautious by age, the henna-stained warrior (for it was said of Mousa that, to retain his youthful appearance, he dyed his hair and beard) pauses ere he replies, and turns towards the sheikhs who sit around:

“Don Julian,” says he, affecting to knit his bushy eyebrows, “comes here as a traitor. The same treason may be hidden in his word that he shows to his own master. But lately he held the garrisons of the Goths against us in the stronghold of Ceuta, and prevailed. The faithful were driven out, and the Arab camp broken. How can we credit him? The Koran teaches that those who deceive an enemy are blessed.”

“Ceuta!” shouts Julian, “yes, O Mousa, you have said well. It is true I drove your Moslems from the field like sheep before the wolves. Yes!” (and even as he speaks his voice grows loud and fierce) “on every side I was hailed as a deliverer, and my heart swelled within me as I thought upon the victory I had won. Then, in the moment when the shouts of the Goths were echoing in my ears, and Roderich made of me almost a king, a letter came to my hand.” Here all expression died out of his face, his powerful frame seemed to stiffen into stone, but from out of the upraised bars of his helmet a menacing fire shone in his eyes, which belied the seeming calm of his demeanour. His gaze was fixed on Mousa, not as though he perceived him, but rather as if the eyes of his mind were ranging far away among the scenes which had brought him to this pass.

“Explain, noble Goth,” replies Mousa, “else is your coming vain.”

Recalled to himself by the Emir’s voice, Julian proceeded; but he visibly faltered as the words came slowly to his lips. “The dishonour of my house is my reward. My name is blasted while Roderich lives. For this purpose am I come.”

“This is a wild tale,” answers Mousa, crossing his arms within the draperies of his robe. “Your own words proclaim you a traitor. You may be true. If false, Allah judge you!”

Then it was that Tháryk-el-Tuerto rose and stood forth from among the sheikhs, his one eye gleaming with a savage joy.

“Doubt not the words of Don Julian, O Emir,” he cries. “The wrong which Roderich has wrought him would move the lowest Berber of the desert to revenge. By his offer, O Emir, a new land spreads out before us, inviting us to conquest. What is to prevent us from becoming the inheritors of the Goth? Let me go forth with Don Julian and prove the land.”

The bold words of “the one-eyed Tháryk” find favour with Mousa and the chiefs. “Allah is great,” is their answer. “Mahomet the Prophet speaks by the mouth of Tháryk. Let it be as he desires.”

So Julian and Tháryk departed with five galleys and five hundred men; landed at Algeciras in the Bay of Gibraltar (Gibel Taric to this day, in memory of him), and returned to Africa with such tidings of the power of Julian to raise the land, that a formidable invasion was decided on.

CHAPTER V

Landing of the Moors—The Eve of Battle

At this dismal news Roderich turned to the wall and covered his face with his robe. Changed as he was from the valorous young hero of earlier days, enervated and sensual, the blood of brave warriors flowed in his veins, and shame and remorse overwhelmed him. Not one word could Egilona draw from him. To the pressure of her soft arms he did not respond; nor did he heed the kisses she showered on him, as, parting the long meshes of his flowing locks, she strove to uncover his face.

Around, the courtiers stand mute, each man with his eyes fixed on the earth. An awful silence follows, broken only by the sobs of the queen, as messenger after messenger rides in, distracting the city with fresh tales of woe. So easy had the treachery of Julian made conquest for the Moors, that already the coast of Andalusia bristled with scimitars, and bands of turbaned horsemen had overrun the plains to the banks of the Guadalete.

What were Roderich’s thoughts as he sat motionless? Did he recall the prophecy of his fall, when, contrary to the advice of the archbishop, who implored him to respect a mystery held sacred for generations, he had forced his way into the magic Tower of Hercules, planted on the cliffs outside Toledo, and in spite of all warnings had broken the lock of the enchanted casket, and unfolded the linen cloths on which were painted miniature figures of horsemen wearing turbans and Eastern tunics, scimitars at their sides, and crossbows at their saddle-bows, carrying pennons and banners with crescents and Moorish devices—all of which at first appeared small, as a pattern to be folded up, then grew and expanded into the size of life,—squadrons of Moorish warriors filling the space, as they moved upwards out of the cloth, in ever-lengthening lines, to the faint sound of distant warlike instruments; becoming ever larger and louder as the enchantment grew, and the figures waxing greater to the far-off clash of cymbals and trumpets, the neighing of war-steeds snorting in the charge, and shouts as of the approach of serried hosts?

And, as Don Roderich gazed as one stupefied before the vision he had audaciously invoked, plainer and plainer became the motion of the figures, and wilder the din, as the linen cloth rolled itself higher and higher and spread and amplified out of the casket, until it rose into the dome of the hall, its texture no longer visible, but moving with the air, the shadowy figures plainer and yet plainer in their fierce warfare, and the din and uproar more appalling as they formed into the semblance of a great battlefield where Christians and Moors strove with each other in deadly conflict; the rush and tramp of horses ever clearer, the blast of trumpet and clarion shriller and louder, the clash of swords and maces, the thud of battle-axes striking together, the whistle of ghostly arrows through the air, and the hurling of lances and darts—while phantom drums rumbled as by thousands with the under-note of war; two battling hosts clearly discerned, presenting all the phases of a desperate combat. And now, behold the phantom lines of Christians quail before the infidel, pressing on them in shadowy thousands, the standard of the Cross is felled, the Gothic banner fouled, the air resounds with shouts, yells of fury, and groans of dying men; and plain among the flying hosts is seen a mounted form, bearing the semblance of a shadowy king—a golden crown encircles his helmet—mounted on a white steed with blood-stained haunches, the satin-coated Orelia gallantly bearing him out of the battle. No countenance is visible, for his back is turned, but in the fashion of the inlaid armour, the jewelled circlet, the device, and graceful lines of his favourite war-horse, Don Roderich, with eyes dilated with horror, beholds himself flying across the plains! Unseated in the mêlée he disappears; and Orelia, without a rider, careers wildly on, as though in search of the loved master, the touch of whose hand she knows so well!

Roderich, paralysed with horror, sees no more, but rushing from the magic hall, the rumble of phantom drums and trumpets in his ear, commands that the iron doors of the Tower of Hercules be for ever closed.

Such was the warning, but he heeded not.

On July 26, 711, beside the river Guadalete (Wady Lete), near Xerez, was fought out the fate of Spain. A dull, dreary region, over which the eye now wanders objectless, save for a far-off lying tower, or a solitary pine marked against the horizon; the scent of lavender and rosemary strong in the wind, like incense rising up for the forgotten dead, whose bones whitened the plain.

The Moors, under the command of Tháryk, “the one-eyed,” were inferior in numbers to the Goths, but compacter and more dexterous, accustomed to constant warfare, and headed by experienced leaders. As the rays of the setting sun caught the wide circle of the Moslem camp the evening before the battle, a motley crowd of many tribes met the astonished eyes of the Goths: Berbers from North Africa in white turbans and white flying bournous, armed with lance and wattled shields; roving Bedouins on the fleetest steeds, their glossy coats hung with beads and charms; Ethiopians, black as night; Nubians with matted hair, and men from Barbary and Tunis.

On landing at Tarifa, near the rock of Gibraltar, Thàryk had burnt every ship. “Behold,” said he, pointing to the flames which ran swiftly along the wood of the light African triremes, “there is now no escape for cowards. We conquer, or we die. Your home is before you,” and he pointed to the low line of inland hills which bound the horizon. As he spoke, an ancient woman, covered with a woollen sheet gathered about her naked limbs, drew near to where he was standing surrounded by his sheikhs, waving a white rag.

“Great Emir,” quoth she, falling on the earth to kiss his feet in Eastern fashion, “I am the bearer of a prophecy written by an ancient seer. He foretold that the Moors would overrun our country, if a leader should appear known by these signs: On his right shoulder is a mole, and his right arm is longer than his left, so that he can cover his knee with one hand without bending down.”

Tháryk listened with grave attention, then laid bare his arms. There was the mole, and so much did his right arm exceed the left in length, that he could clasp his knee with his hand.

The Christians had pitched their tents at sunset, somewhat distant from the Moors, whose black banners, with mysterious signs, dark tents, and savage weapons inspired them with awe. Before night, Don Roderich sent out a picked squadron of the Gothic bodyguard to skirmish with the enemy, with flags and standards bearing the same device as those which had floated before Alaric at the walls of Rome. Each chief, encased in ponderous armour, in singular contrast to the light-armed Moors—attended by esquires heavily armed also, and bowmen and men-at-arms. Old Teodomir led them, having come from his government of Murcia, with many another tried Gothic chief; Ataulfo, and the grey-headed Pelistes, heading, with the traditions of the earliest times, his vassals and retainers. With him was his young son, who had never borne arms but in the lists of the tourney. The young Pelayo had craved to be present, to flesh his maiden sword against the enemy, but the jealousy of Roderich, who hated all those of the old race, had forbidden it; an affront that so rankled in his soul that he swore what seemed then a foolish oath, but which time ratified—to lead his countrymen or to die.

To this goodly array of Christian knights the Moors were not slow to correspond. Ranks of fleet horsemen rode out in the failing light, under the command of Julian (ever to the fore where the fighting was hottest), sacrificing many a gallant life in empty skirmishing, all by the advice of the Archbishop Opas, whose tent lay near to Roderich, while he secretly guided the Moors.

Old Tháryk, astonished by this prompt display of the valour of the Goths, and their devotion to their king, sought out Julian, sternly remonstrating:

“You told me your countrymen were sunk in sloth and effeminacy under a dastard king. But behold, I see their tents whitening the plains and his army to be reckoned by thousands upon thousands of good fighting men. Woe unto you, O Christian knight, if, to work out your own vengeance, you have lured me with false words.”

Julian, greatly troubled, retired to his tent, and called to him his page, the same who had brought him the letter of Florinda from Toledo.

“My pretty boy,” he said, passing his arm about his neck, “you know that I love you almost as a son. Now is the time to serve me. Hie to the Christian camp, and find the tent of my kinsman, Archbishop Opas. Show him this ring, and tell him Julian greets him and demands how Florinda can be avenged. Mark well his answer. Repeat it word by word. Carry close lips and open eyes in the enemy’s camp. If challenged, say you are one of the household of the archbishop, bearing missives from Cordoba. So speed you well, my boy. Away, away, away.”

Along the margin of the Guadalete he rode, the soft turf giving back no sound. A sword girded to his saddle-bow, a dagger in his belt, mounted on a steed as fleet as air, and black in colour as the night.

Brightly gleamed the Christian fires around their camp, but sadly to his ear came the plaints of the soldiers wounded in the skirmish, who had crawled to the river bank to slake their thirst. Then with a groan, a dying Moor, doomed to expire alone under an alien sky, called on him to stay, and his trusty horse stumbled, and nearly fell, over the prostrate body of a dead knight lately prancing proudly under the sun. The heart of the page faltered. Fain would he have stayed, for he had served in courts, and was of a gentle nature, but never for a moment did he tarry on his course, or let compassion tempt him to help such as called on him for aid. His master’s word was law, and he had said, “Haste thee on thy way for life and death.”

Challenged by the Christian sentinels, he spoke the words Julian had taught him, and passed through to the tent of the archbishop.

Opas, as one of those militant churchmen so common in that age, having doffed his suit of mail, was resting after the fight. When his own brother had fallen, without remorse he turned to Roderich. Now Roderich in his turn was betrayed and he bethought himself of his kinsfolk.

A stern, high-featured man, with a ready smile, like winter sunshine upon snow, merciless and hypocritical, he had steered his way through two stormy reigns, and was now believed by Roderich to be as devoted to his cause as he had seemed to be to the unhappy Witica. When he saw the ring his brother-in-law had sent him, he made no reply. For awhile he contemplated the page curiously, slowly passing his jewelled fingers over his clean-shaven chin, lost in thought; then he broke silence:

“Doubtless,” said the hypocrite, “the message is from God. Your master Julian is but the mouthpiece of the Most High. Since the divine voice has spoken, and given us time to consider its judgment, it behoves me, his servant in all things, to accomplish his will. Hasten back to your lord, good page, and tell him to have faith in his wife’s brother. As yet my own troops have not unsheathed the sword, but are fresh and ready. At the hour of noon to-morrow, when both armies are engaged, let him look out; I will pass over to the Moslem.”

With this treacherous message the page departed, making no noise, and as he guided his black horse along the lines of the river as he had come, the sound of an arrow whistled by his ear, a random shot which did not harm him.

CHAPTER VI

Battle of Guadalete—Overthrow of Don Roderich

From his belt he drew an arrow and sped it swiftly from a golden bow, watching its silent course, but the dark figure still rode on.

Heavy was his heart within him as he watched the dawn of day (say the old chroniclers), not for himself, but for the thousands who lay stretched in slumber around, and the thought of the lonely Egilona called from him a sigh. Of all things, to a brave heart treachery is the sorest woe, and treachery he knew was at work with Julian close at hand. He would have challenged him to single battle, as knight to knight, but for the memory of his crime. This made him shrink before the father whose just vengeance had brought the invaders into the land.

With the glorious burst of morning all these dismal thoughts vanished. Again he became the brilliant chief who had wrested from Witica the crown of Spain. Again his heart swelled with the ardour of battle, as he prepared to lead his army with the pomp proper to a Gothic king.

A comelier monarch never drew breath than Roderich as—attired in a robe of beaten gold, sandals embroidered in pearls and diamonds on his feet, a sceptre in his hand, and a gold crown on his head resplendent with priceless gems—he mounted the lofty chariot of ivory, drawn by milk-white horses champing bits of gold, the wheels and pole covered with plates of gold, and a crimson canopy overhead. As he advanced in front of the army shouts of delight rent the air.

“Forward, brave Goths,” he cried, waving his glittering sceptre, as he halted in the front of the royal standard. “God is above to bless the Christian cause! Your king leads you! Forward to the fight, and death be his portion who shows any fear!”

Ere his voice had ceased, the sun, which had risen brilliantly, sank behind a bank of vapour, and a rising sirocco raised such clouds of dust that the very air was darkened.

Various was the fortune of the day. To the battalions of light Arab horsemen, throwing showers of arrows, stones, and javelins, the old Gothic valour opposed lines of steady troops. Where the Moslem fell, the Christian rushed in, seized both horse and armour. Desperately they fought and well, until the plain was strewn with prostrate Moors.

Don Roderich, throwing off the cumbrous robes of state, and mounting his satin-coated steed, Orelia, a horned helmet on his head, sternly grasping his buckler, was foremost wherever danger menaced. With the reins loose upon Orelia’s neck (who utters a wild snort rushing forward at full speed to meet the charge) the Moors fled before him, as though he were a second Santiago descended from the skies.

Tháryk, the one-eyed, maddened at seeing his battalions retreating, flung himself before them, and, rising in his stirrups, strove to stem the tide.

“Oh, Mussulmen,” he shouted, “whither would you fly? The sea is behind you, the enemy in front. You have no hope but in valour. Follow me; aim at the leaders. Pick off the Christian knights. He who brings in the head of the Goth shall swim in gold.” And putting spurs to his charger, he laid about him to right and left, trampling down the foot-soldiers, followed by Tenedos, a Spanish renegade, and a whole company of savage Berbers, who fell upon Ataulfo and the men he led.

A hand-to-hand conflict ensued. Ataulfo was wounded while he struggled with Tenedos, whom he had felled to the earth with his battle-axe, but his good horse being disabled and useless, obliged him to dismount. He tried to seize the reins of that of Tenedos, but the sagacious animal, as if recognising the hand which had smitten his master, reared and plunged, and would not let him mount. On foot he repulsed a whole circle of assailants. Blow after blow he dealt upon the enemy, keeping back the fierce crew of turbaned Berbers that sought to strike him down.

“All honour to Christian chivalry,” cried Tháryk, who, seeing the quick gleam of swords and scimitars around the Gothic prince, spurred to the spot. But a selfish thought came to crush the generous impulse which had moved him for a moment.

“If Ataulfo falls, it will be death to the army of Roderich,” whereupon he dealt him such a cruel blow with his scimitar as felled him to the earth. A pool of blood formed round him. Then the Moor, for an instant separated from him by a squadron of horse, led by Pelistes, hastened to deal him the death-blow.

No Goth possessed the moral influence of Pelistes. He was the high priest of chivalry. With him rode his only son. In vain he warned him not to expose himself. In vain! The die was cast—he fell! His maiden battle was doomed to be his last! Alas! poor father! Borne on the shields of his vassals, they carried the boy towards the royal tent, where Roderich was leading his Gothic guards forward to terminate the battle by a victorious onslaught.

At this moment, when the sun, long obscured by clouds, reached the meridian, and shone forth in sudden lustre, a deafening shout was heard, and Archbishop Opas, in a complete suit of armour, struck out from the centre of the Christian army at a gallop to join the Moors.

From that moment the fortune of battle changes. In vain does Pelistes, forgetting his grief, lead on such as would follow him. For the first time his voice falls on deaf ears. In vain Teodomir endeavours to rally his veterans. In vain Roderich on his war-horse, grasps sword and buckler, to reform his flying troops. Surrounded and assailed by his own treacherous subjects, his sword flies like lightning round his homed casque, each stroke felling an enemy. Around him the fight thickens. “A kingdom for his head,” cries the voice of Julian, pressing closer and closer with his perjured band.

A mortal panic falls on the Christians. Not only do they not fight, but they throw away their arms and fly!

For three whole days the Bedouins and Berbers, the fleetest riders among the Africans, pursue the flying Goths over the plains. But few of that vast host live to tell the tale. Alone, with a compact body of men, Teodomir manages to escape into the East, and Pelistes, carrying the body of his son, shuts himself up behind the walls of Cordoba.

And Roderich?

The Christian chronicler who furnishes these details records that the king fell by the sword of Julian, but this is too much of a monkish morality to be true. It is said that Orelia, stained with blood and disabled, was found entangled in a marsh on the borders of the Guadalete, the sandals and mantle of her master beside her.

But where history is silent romancers take up the tale, in those same ballads, parodied by Cervantes, in the inimitable scene of the puppets, in the second part of Don Quixote, when Master Peter, representing Roderich’s tragic death, grows alarmed at the Don’s frantic wrath, and his drawn sword, and cries, “Hold! hold! These are no real Berbers and Moors, but harmless dolls of pasteboard, picturing unhappy King Roderich, who said, ‘Yesterday I was lord of Spain, and to-day I have not a foot of land which I can call my own. Not half an hour ago I had knights and empire at my command, horses in abundance, and chests and bags of gold, but now you see me a ruined and undone man!’ ”

Roderich, say the ballads, did not perish in the battle of the Guadalete, but seeing that the day was lost, he fled. But not far, for the sleek-skinned Orelia, bleeding with wounds to death, soon fell. Then the king wandered on foot, faint and sick, his sword hacked into a saw, his jewelled mail drilled through. On the top of the highest rock (that is not much, for we are in the eternal plains) he sits down and weeps. Wherever he turns the sight of death meets his gaze. His valiant Goths have fallen or have fled. No refuge is left in the walled cities, or by the sea-shore. Toledo, his capital, is far away, and who knows if his banner still floats from the Alcazar towers? Below is the battlefield stained with Christian blood. There his royal banner trails in the dust. The bodies of his dying troops cover the plain. The shrill cry of the Arab comes sharply to his ear. He can discern the form of Julian, sword in hand, dealing destruction to such as still linger, and Tháryk, on his Arab courser white-turbaned, more terrible than the phantoms of the black kings who haunt the desert!

Just, however, as Roderich, in despair, is about to kill himself (so the ballad says) a shepherd appears, who gives him food, and conducts him to a neighbouring hermit. The hermit, on learning who he is, regards him somewhat dubiously, exhorts him to pray, and purify himself from sin. As to hospitality he can offer him only an open grave, into which Roderich descends without a murmur, in company with a big black snake. If his repentance be sincere, the hermit tells him, the snake will leave him harmless; if not, it will bite him until he dies.

In the grave the king lies silent for three days. Then the hermit appears, and asks: “How fares it, most noble king? How do you relish your dark bed and dismal bedfellow?”

“The snake,” answers Roderich, “is black, and rears its crest, but it does not bite me. Pray for me, good father, that I may be unharmed.”

But that very afternoon, sore and doleful moans smite the hermit’s ear. It is Roderich from the grave crying, “Father, father, the snake gnaws me. Now, now I feel his pointed teeth. O God, will it soon end?”

At which the hermit, gazing down, exhorts him to bear the pain, “to save his sinful soul,” in the true style of monkish consolation.

And thus poor Roderich dies a miserable death, verifying what Sancho Panza says to the duchess, “that all the silks and riches of the Goths did not prevent his being cut off,” and the traitor and renegade, Julian, helps the Moors to possess Xerez, and the plain from Seville to the rock of Gibraltar, called Gebel Tháryk (hill of Tháryk,) which they kept for many centuries, until driven out by Alonso, the wise King of Leon and Castile.

CHAPTER VII

Cordoba—Pelistes—Don Julian—Florinda

He listens in silence. He neither refuses the offer, nor gives consent. His heart is dead within him. Then he lifts his eyes to the green mountains of the Sierra Morena, which give so pleasant an aspect to the great Plaza where he stands, and the long-suppressed tears well over and run down his furrowed cheeks, at the thought that these fair lands and the white city, so jocund in the sun, with avenues of spreading palms, and plane-trees, and jasmine-planted gardens, shall fall.

“Citizens,” he says, turning to the hundreds whose eager eyes are fixed on him as shipwrecked mariners note the advance of a raft in a stormy sea, “I swear to stand by you to the end. I will undertake the defence of your city.”

A solemn oath is registered there on the Plaza (still planted with palms and called now del gran Capitan, in memory of another great leader, Gonsalo de Cordoba), a solemn oath, and as a sign of accepting all held up their right hands.

But, shameful to relate, so soon as the scouts bring word of the advance of the victorious Moors, every wealthy burgher within Cordoba packs up his goods and flees to the deepest recesses of the Sierra. The monks abandon their convents, the women follow, and only the poor and destitute are left to the mercy of the invaders.

To the sound of drums and cymbals the Moors march in. In front rides the Christian renegade, Maguel, his turbaned head decorated with the crescent of command, his war-horse carrying strings of Christian heads, dropping blood upon the stones. Next is Julian, a dark scowl upon his face, as of a man carrying a load of care. How well he knows each tree and huerta and tower along the march—the little creek in the Guadalquivir, where the boats are moored; a lone castle of defence, looking towards the hills (now called “of Almodar”), he often has defended against the wild forays of the Arabs; the Sierra broken into cliffs and precipices, with groves and gardens, and silvery streams, studded by quintas and hamlets. There, in a green retreat among the wooded hills, he and Frandina had lived when Florinda was a child. Here, in the Alcazar, he had met Don Roderich; and the remembrance fills him with such sudden rage, he digs his spurs into the smooth flanks of his Arab charger, an uncalled-for violence, resenting which, the fiery animal rears, and half unseats him.

Yes, it was at Cordoba that he consigned Florinda to his care, the fair-faced profligate. There he parted from her, guileless as a babe, and now, through the length and breadth of Spain, she is known by the name of La Cava. He himself is but a vile renegade. Already the poison of jealousy is working at his heart. The Moors distrust him, though they owe all to him. Where would “the one-eyed” have been but for him? And Mousa, and Maguel, and the rest? And such an uncontrollable burst of wrath passes over him that he curses aloud. At least he was the first in the court of Roderich, and now, who knows when Andalusia is conquered and the Moors need him no more, what form their suspicion may assume?

Then came to his mind uneasy thoughts of Frandina and of his son. For himself he cares not. A dagger thrust can settle all his fate—but the boy! his only son! Is he safe under his mother’s care? May he not be made a hostage by Tháryk?

Already the scent of treason is in the air!

Here a wild clamour breaks in upon his thoughts. The white walls of Cordoba are in front, and a mighty shout of “Allah! there is no God but Allah, and Mahomet is his Prophet,” rises from a thousand throats of swarthy Africans, careering wildly over the grass, Numidians, with fringed bands and armlets on elbow and ankle, sun-dried sheikhs and wandering Kalenders and Fakirs in the front of the great army, mounted on camels and mules.

For three long months Pelistes, well-named the “Father of the Goths,” defended the battered Convent of St. George, within which he barricaded himself. Hope of succour supports his courage. Teodomir may come, or young Pelayo, from Asturia or Leon.

But day follows day, and night passes on to night, under the lustre of the southern stars, and no help comes. Eager eyes hail every cloud of dust that sweeps the plain, and interpret dark shadows of the clouds, which summer tempests cast, into troops of Christian knights approaching. Alas! no human form is visible, save now and then an Arab horseman, riding with light rein, charged with some mission from Mousa in the south.

Famine, too, comes to try them with its ghastly face. One by one they kill the horses, which had carried them so gallantly from the Guadalete (to a trooper an act as repulsive as the murdering of his child), and strive with divers ills which hunger brings.

Pelistes, unable to bear the sight of the sufferings of his friends, assembles what remains of the miserable garrison, and thus speaks his mind:

“Comrades,” he cries, in a voice which he endeavours to make cheerful, “it is needless to conceal danger from brave men; our case is desperate. One by one we shall die and leave no sign. There is but one chance, and I shall brave it. To-morrow, before break of day, I will ride forth disguised as one of these base renegades of whom there are so many in Cordoba, and, God willing, spur on to Toledo. If my errand prosper, I shall be back in twenty days. If not, at least I shall return to die with you. Keep a sharp lookout! Five beacon fires blazing on the lowest line of hills mean success. If not, the blackness of despair engulfs me.”

And so it was. As the faint streaks of light tipped the craggy tops of the Sierra with points of gold, warning the shepherds to rise and tend their sheep, and the birds flew low, waiting for further light to wing their course into the upper regions of the air, Pelistes rode forth, a turban on his head, along the silent streets of Cordoba, to which the shadows of long lines of wall give such an Eastern aspect. He passed the gate, but lazily guarded at that early hour, unchallenged, in company with droves of cattle and mules laden with sacks. Then, pricking the sides of his willing horse, he galloped at full speed along the tracks which mount upwards, and, ere the sun rose, had gained the lower spurs of the Sierra.

At the gateway of a quinta he draws rein, willing to rest his panting steed. But alas! while he tarries the sound of horses’ hoofs, riding at topmost speed over the rocky path he has just traversed, smites his ear. In an instant he is again in the saddle, and straining upwards to conceal himself in a rugged hollow beside the dried-up course of a mountain torrent.

His tired horse, wind-blown and trembling, falters at the edge and falls, rolling with Pelistes to the bottom. Greatly shaken and bleeding, Pelistes extricates himself with difficulty and strives to raise his horse, but when the generous beast, rising with a groan to his master’s call, stands up, it falls again on the hard stones, unable to keep its feet.

Meanwhile, on comes the horseman through the falling stones, and a face he knows too well looks over the brink of the ravine, and a voice calls out, “Well met, brave Pelistes, even in a hole. You have ridden bravely from Cordoba, and are well mounted. We followed you ill, but here we are in time.”

The voice is that of Maguel. For all reply, Pelistes, standing by his horse, draws his sword.

“Do you bandy words with me as a coward!” he thunders, brandishing his weapon. “Stand forth! If you are a man, tie your horse to a tree and come down on foot. We will see who is the better man, a Christian renegade or a Gothic knight.”

And fight they did, and desperately, as if each held a nation’s ransom at his sword’s point. Better matched warriors never clashed steel. Fragments of shields flew around; then casques were split, and blood flowed freely. Still they fought. At length Pelistes, who had been much injured by his fall, began to show signs of weakness, and Maguel perceiving this, pressed on him the more, until Pelistes, summoning all his remaining strength to strike a final blow, failed in his aim and fell prostrate on the earth.

“This is a brave foe,” quoted Maguel to his followers, who, renegade though he was, we must allow had generous qualities or he would have run Pelistes through. “Let us save his life, such a knight will honour our triumph.” So, unlacing his buckler, they throw water on his face, and raise him upright against a barrier of rock.

Though plunged in a deep swoon, Pelistes lived, and strapped to a stout palfrey reached Cordoba.

When the imprisoned captives, straining their eyes for any sign, see him surrounded by dusky Africans, to their eyes a bleeding corpse, their very souls seem dead within them. Pelistes gone, no help can come. To sell their lives dear, they sally forth, but are soon driven back into the convent, each noble Goth dying sword in hand. The convent is immediately occupied by the Moors, and from that time is known as “St. George of the Captives.”

Meanwhile, Pelistes found friends among his foes. Slowly his wounds healed, and until he was restored to health the Arabs carefully tended him. At length, when he was able to walk, Maguel (who frankly gloried in his apostasy) bade him to a banquet within the Alcazar. It was a sore trial to the feelings of the old warrior, but they were generous foes. As a prisoner, he could not refuse the hospitality of his hosts, but the woes of his country lay heavy at his heart. The grass was still green over the graves of his comrades, and to his fancy the weapons of the Moors were crimsoned with their blood.

Pelistes occupied the seat of honour on the right hand of Maguel, and with that exquisite courtesy, for which the Moors were famous, his host turned the talk on the valour displayed by the Christians, and extolled their gallant defence of Cordoba, specially remembering that devoted little band who had perished in the convent.

“Could I have saved their lives,” added Maguel, “it would have done me honour. Such enemies ennoble victory. Had those brave knights consented to surrender when I sent in a flag of truce I should have cherished them as brothers.”

Pelistes silently acknowledged the enlightened chivalry of these words, but his heart smote him so sorely that he could not speak for some moments. But for his final charge to them “not to surrender” they might be with him now! At length words came to him.

“Happy are the dead,” was his reply, in a voice that vibrated with emotion. “They rest in peace after the hard-fought struggle. My companions in arms have fallen with honour, while I live to see fair Spain the prey of strangers. My son is dead, cut down by my side in battle. My friends are gone, I have reason to weep for them. But one there is”—and he raised his voice and a dark fire came into his pale eye—“one for whom I shall never cease to mourn; of all my brothers in arms he was the dearest. Of all the Gothic knights he was the bravest. Alas! where is he? I know not. There is no record of his death in battle, or I would seek for him in the waters of the Guadalete, or on the plains of Xerez; or if, like so many others, he is doomed to slavery in a foreign land, I would join him in exile, and we would mourn our country’s loss together.”

So pathetic was the tone of Pelistes, so thrilling, that Maguel and the emirs who sat round asked anxiously, “Who is he?”

“His name,” answered Pelistes, with lowered voice, glancing round the table as he spoke, “was Don Julian, Conde Espatorios of Spain.”

“How,” cried Maguel, “my honoured guest, are you smitten with sudden blindness? Behold your friend. Do you not see him? He is seated there,” pointing to Julian, at some distance down the board, attired in the turban and long embroidered caftan of a Moor.

Pelistes paused, slowly raised his eyes, then sternly fixed them on Julian. “In the name of God, stranger, answer me,” he said, “how dare you presume to personate the Conde Espatorios?”

Stung to the quick, Julian rose, flinging a furious glance on the calm, cold eyes riveted upon him. “Pelistes,” he cried, “what means this mockery? You know me well. I am Julian.”

“I know you for a base apostate,” thundered Pelistes, the great wrath within him finding sudden vent, “an apostate and a traitor. Julian, my friend, was a Christian knight, devoted, true, and valiant, but you, you have no name. Infidel, renegade, and traitor, the earth you tread abhors you. The men you lead curse you, for you have betrayed Spain and your king. Therefore, I repeat, O man unknown, if you declare you are Don Julian, you lie. He, alas! is dead, and you are some fiend from hell who wears his semblance. No longer can I brook the sight.”

So, rising from the table, Pelistes departed, turning his back on Julian, overwhelmed with confusion, amid the scornful smiles of the Moslem knights, who used while they despised him.

As yet, however, all had gone well with him. If a traitor, his treason was successful. He held high command among the Arabs under Tháryk and Mousa, and amassed great wealth by his country’s spoil, but he loathed himself more and more. He knew that all men despised him. Too old and too serious for the sensual life of the Moors, and as a warrior little caring to be delicately fed and housed, he sought solace in the company of his masculine but faithful wife, Florinda, and his little son.

Florinda, alas! how changed! Her sweet, soft eyes were wild. The delicate bloom upon her cheek had deepened into a fixed red; her mouth made for kisses, lined and hard, her whole face strangely haggard. No words can paint the anguish she suffered at returning into Spain with her mother. Julian would have folded her in his arms, but she turned from him:

“Touch me not, my father,” she cried, shuddering. “Your hand pollutes me. Why have you brought me here?”

“But, my daughter,” answered the unhappy parent, averting his face, not to catch the reproachful anguish of her eyes, “surely it is not for you to accuse me? All I have done was to avenge you.”

“Ah!” she answered with a wild laugh. “That is false. I called for you in my trouble to take me from the court, and the reproachful eyes of Egilona. But never, never, did I bid you visit the wrong I had suffered upon the land. What had Spain to do with me? No, not Florinda, but your own ambition prompted you. To wear the crown of Roderich was your aim. I was but the instrument of your ambition. Let me go,” she