Now here it should be said, as in the fairy tales, “They married and lived happily ever after.” Not at all. We are only at the beginning of their troubles.

The rage of Don Sancho of Leon and King Garcia of Navarre, the father of Doña Ava, knew no bounds. Genuine rage, for they had both been caught in their own trap, a thing utterly unbearable to malignant natures, be they kings or commons.

As to the King of Navarre, who not only had lost a highly valuable marriageable daughter, but the half of the kingdom of Castile, he at once assembled a strong army, under the pretence that the Conde had feloniously carried off the Infanta—a curious accusation, considering that he himself had consented to their nuptials.

“Let us wait till he comes to a better mind,” urged Doña Ava, from her palace at Burgos, looking out over those rich plains which are the glory of Central Spain; “after all, I am his daughter, he cannot harm me.”

But this Christian point of view was not shared by the King of Navarre, who from his mountains executed such raids on Castile that Gonzales had no choice but to face him.

Near Ogroño was the battle, not far from Burgos, by the river Ebro, and hardly was it fought, and victory only gained by a clever feint, headed by the Conde in person. Don Garcia’s camp was seized and he himself taken prisoner.

Now face to face they stood within a tent, the father-in-law and son. The casque of the king battered, his armour bleared, his chief knights in a like plight, prisoners beside him—the Conde in front brandishing a blood-stained sword, with such a sense of wrong gnawing at his heart as for a time leaves him speechless.

Then the words of reproach came rushing to his lips. “False king, did I not come in peace to Narbonne, and you gave me the royal kiss of welcome? Did I not eat at your board? Sleep the sleep of peace under your roof? Ride with you? Jest with you? Live as man to man of the kinship we are to each other? Did you not” (and here his upraised voice breaks into a softer tone as he names her) “give me your daughter, the Infanta, as my wife, and, while her hand was clasped in mine, her kiss upon my cheek, did you not bind me, vile king, in chains, and hurl me into a dungeon, where but for her help, the angel of my life, I should have died unheeded?”

To all this Don Garcia, with eyes cast on the ground, answered not a word, his armed figure defined against the pattern of rich brocade which lined the tent under the light of torches.

“Now to Burgos with you, King of Navarre, and as you did by me, so be it done to you! That is bare justice!”

“Ah! good my lord,” came the soft voice of Doña Ava into his ear, as she went out to meet him with her ladies to the gate of Santa Maria, beside the river which flows by the walls of Burgos “remember, Don Garcia is my father.”

“Now prythee hold your peace, fair wife,” was his reply, “much as I love you he shall this time meet his due. Nor shall he return to Navarre until he pays me a full ransom.”

But like the gentle dropping of water (and drops, we know, wear even stones, much more the soft substance of which hearts are made) came the entreaties of the Infanta. After all they were married, and Don Garcia had suffered a grievous defeat, which had weakened him for mischief for many a day!

So at the end of a year the prison was unbarred and a great festival held in the old palace of Burgos, of which no trace remains; a throne glittering with cloth of gold was raised in the midst of carpets and screens and awnings of brocaded silk, a luxury borrowed from the Moors—from whom, much as they fought them, all refined tastes were acquired; and afterwards, at the board in royal robes, Don Garcia is seated side by side with Castile (Doña Ava, crowned with a royal diadem, between), as they quaff the generous wine of Valdepeñas in healths of eternal amity and alliance.

Again the Cortes were assembled in haste, in the northern city of Leon, to determine conclusions against the Moors.

The Caliph Almanzor, coming from Cordoba, had penetrated north as far as Santiago de Compostela, in Galicia, sacked the shrine, the very Mecca of Spain, where countless miracles were wrought by his bones; and, insult of insults, pulled down the bells and hung them (oh, horrors!) in the Mesquita of Cordoba, where they still remain! So that Fernan gladly hastened to obey Don Sancho’s summons, along with the kings of Aragon and Navarre. Years had passed, a son had been born to him, and many acts of courtesy exchanged, as between royal kinsfolk.

To recall the past was by no means in harmony

with his forgiving temper. “Perhaps he will pay the debt he owes me,” was his thought, “for my horse Sila and the hawk he bought of me so long ago; the sum must by this time be a big one.”

It was night when the council ended, and the royal company assembled in the hall, having exchanged their heavier garments for fanciful doublets and mantles of tissues woven in Eastern looms, set off with fur and gems—graceful toques to correspond, replacing helmet and head-piece, a feather lying low on the shoulder, or peaked caps encircled with garlands of jewels, the badge of his house embroidered on each knight’s breast. As each guest took his place with that solemn demeanour common to Spaniards, a flourish of trumpets sounded, a side door opened, and Doña Teresa appeared, upright to stiffness, wearing her crown upon her head, her son Don Sancho advancing with respectful courtesy to place her on his right hand.

All eyes were fixed on Don Fernan Gonzales, the youngest of the princes. Happiness and loyalty looked out of his comely face, grace was in every movement, as he exchanged compliments with his royal kinsmen—Aragon, a broad-shouldered man, frank and true in nature; Navarre, dark and preponderant, his eyes bent significantly on his son-in-law; and his nephew of Leon, Don Sancho the Fat, grown so obese he moved in his royal robes with difficulty.

The feast, spread on oaken tables covered with scarlet cloths, blazed with the sheen of precious candelabra, cups inlaid with rubies, and silver figures trimmed with posies of flowers, aromatic herbs and green boughs from the wood, the walls hung with damascened draperies and a fair Moorish carpet on the floor. The fish, flesh, and fowl served in heavy silver platters were offered entire to each guest, who with his dagger cut his own portion, drinking from silver goblets placed at his side.

At the conclusion of the banquet, to the blare of trumpets, King Don Sancho rose to lead his mother to her retiring room, with the same state as she had entered.

Already the kings of Navarre and Aragon had passed on, and the Conde de Castile was preparing to follow when an armed hand was placed on his shoulder and a voice uttered in his ear: “You are my prisoner.”

“Your prisoner?” cried he, looking round to behold a circle of armed men, who had silently gathered behind his chair as he was in the act of making obeisance to the queen, “by my troth! this is an idle jest. You have mistaken your man, my masters. Look elsewhere.”

“Not at all,” cried Queen Doña Teresa, disengaging her hand from that of the king, the old malignant smile glittering in her black eyes. “Did you think, Sir Conde, we were as green as you, who come unarmed a second time among your foes? The bird that had flown is recaptured! Ha! ha!” and she gave a bitter laugh. “I think I can prophesy you will not escape this time! The dungeons of Leon are better guarded than those of Narbonne!”

“Queen Doña Teresa,” was his answer, his arms already bound by fetters, “I take no shame for my lack of suspicion. Rather is it for you, so royally born, to blush at such baseness. You,” and, spite of himself, his eyes flamed with rage as he realised that he had again fallen into the power of his remorseless kinsfolk, “you are a disgrace to the royal lineage you represent. See, even the king, your son, casts down his eyes. Don Sancho is ashamed of his mother!”

Stung by his reproaches the queen raised her hand as a signal to the guards to bear him away.

“What manner of man is this?” she said, turning to the king, who, though he had joined in the conspiracy, now stood irresolute and pale, a silent witness to his mother’s treachery. “He dares to jeer at me with the chains about his neck. But a long life passed in a Gothic dungeon will bring down his pride. Fear not, my son, what can he do? When the half of his kingdom is in your hands you will thank me.”

“But our kinswoman the Infanta will offer a large ransom. Can you refuse her?”

“Refuse!” retorted the queen, her tall figure drawn up to its full height; “there is no treasure in the world that shall buy off the Conde de Castila. His death alone will satisfy me.”

And with a menacing gesture in the direction by which he had disappeared, she swept out of the hall as she had come, followed by her retinue.

CHAPTER XXV

Doña Ava Outwits Don Sancho and Releases her Husband

Don Sancho at least understood his real position, and would willingly have accepted the large ransom offered by the Infanta for her lord, but his mother was not to be persuaded. His dark-browed uncle of Navarre, too, was as violent and as short-sighted as she, so that Don Sancho could only offer up fervent prayers to Santiago, the patron of Spain, whose shrine at Compostela had, to his everlasting shame, been so ill-defended.

Would the celestial knight again appear on his milk-white charger clad in radiant mail and ensure a victory as when King Ramiro, his predecessor, refused to pay “the Maiden Tribute” exacted by the Caliph? Would he come? And never did sovereign put up more fervent Ora pro nobis Sancta Maria than the fat king, and invocations to all the calendar of saints.

In the midst of his devotions a scratch is heard at the door, the curtain is drawn aside, and the head of a jefe appears. At an impatient motion of the king, indicating that he would not be disturbed, the jefe bows low.

“Good, my lord,” are his words, “what am I to do? Here is a pious pilgrim bound for Compostela, earnestly desiring to see your Grace.”

“For Compostela,” answers the king. “Ah! he is welcome, admit him at once. He can tell me, on his return, in what precise condition the sanctuary is left. That last raid of the Moors lies heavy on my soul.”

In a few moments the pilgrim stands before him, his face concealed by a close-fitting cap, heavily charged with drapery, which he wears on his head.

“In what matter,” asks Don Sancho, with a gracious smile, “can the King of Leon advantage you, good pilgrim? If it is within my power, command me.”

“My lord,” answers the pilgrim, in tones which fell caressingly on the ear, “I humbly thank your Grace. I am bound for Compostela, to fulfil a vow concerning your prisoner, the Conde de Castila.”

“The Conde de Castila!” exclaims the king, half starting from his chair. “He is clean forgotten. As well talk of a dead man.”

“I crave your pardon if I have said aught amiss, but the Conde has caused deep sorrow to me. In my wrath I invoked a curse upon him, in the name of the blessed saint, and now I am bound to render thanks for his death.”

“Death!” ejaculates Don Sancho, turning pale, “who talks of his death?”

“I,” answers the pilgrim, with a singular decision. “I know that the death of the Conde is near!”

“By whose hand?” demands the king, greatly excited. (Did this holy person know of some secret conspiracy of Doña Teresa to assassinate him, and had he come to reveal it?)

“By mine,” whispers the pilgrim, mysteriously approaching him. “I have about me a subtle poison, the venom of snakes, given me by a Berber. It never fails; silently it extinguishes life. But it must be properly administered. Lead me to the prison—I will answer for the rest.”

Even Don Sancho is staggered by the proposal of this cold-blooded pilgrim, and replies with caution:

“Should this prove true, I shall not be unmindful of the saint’s claims on me. But, holy pilgrim, much as I honour your design and wish you success, in these warlike times I must demand some sign to assure me of your truth.”

“Signs shall not be wanting, O King,” answers the pilgrim, in whose voice an eager sweetness seems to penetrate. “The Holy Apostle has himself appeared to me in a vision and unfolded deep mysteries concerning Navarre and Leon. The time is not far off when Castile and Leon will be united under one crown, and that union will end the Mussulman rule in Spain.”

“O great and holy seer!” ejaculates Sancho the Fat, folding his hands, greatly impressed by what appears the complete fulfilment of his utmost ambition, “much do I honour you. Disclose, if not bound by a vow, what is your name, that I may impart it to my mother, Doña Queen Teresa.”

To this request the pilgrim pays no heed.

“Perhaps you will tell me if the death of the Conde prefigures these events?”

“By the aid of Santiago, yes,” is the answer. “Such is the prophecy I have to impart.”

Now had Don Sancho been less eager to rid himself of Gonzales by every means, he would have noted the violent agitation which shook the pilgrim’s frame.

To poison a sovereign in prison—and a kinsman to boot—is a serious undertaking. Already the words of refusal are on Sancho’s lips when the curtains of the apartment fly open and Doña Teresa rushes in.

“What is this I hear?” cries this imperious woman, who has been listening outside, her cruel face darkened by anger. “Shame on your cowardice, Don Sancho; you are no son of mine. What! you would refuse the proposal of this worthy pilgrim? I understand and applaud him. To kill the Conde de Castila is a work of mercy, for by his death the lives of thousands will be spared on the battle-field.”

In the presence of his mother the fat king becomes mute. Against his better judgment he consents to the death of the Conde.

Again we come upon Fernan in prison, a very unlikely place for so brilliant a cavalier, but, alas! adverse destiny has again doomed him to pass many months in this second dungeon—much more rough and dismal than the prison of Narbonne, as the old city of Leon, with its Gothic traditions, was more uncouth and uncivilised than the capital of Navarre.

“Who are you?” he asks in great surprise as a pilgrim is ushered in. “Nor need I ask; coming from the vile king you can only be a foe.”

“I am your friend,” answers a voice that strikes like music on his ear, “your best, your only friend, my lord and husband,” and as the disguise falls to the ground the faithful Infanta stands before her lord.

We will pass over their transports. A decent veil must conceal the mysteries of married life. Naturally the first question he asked was how she came there? Together they laughed while she explained the murderous purpose of the wicked queen.

“But time speeds,” she says, tearing herself from his arms. “You must fly. The courage of our good Castilians is damped by your long absence. Not a moment must be lost.”

“What! in broad daylight?” asks he. “Is it so easy a thing to go?” and he gives a bitter laugh.

“No, love, most difficult, but we must change our clothes! I am you, and you are me. In that bed,” pointing to a straw pallet, “I stretch myself to die. I have swallowed the poison, and you, my noble husband, in the pilgrim’s dress, speed to Burgos. Once under the gateway, you are safe. Oh! greet them well, my dear ones,” and, spite of herself, as she thinks of her child, silent tears gather in her eyes.

“But, Ava,” he exclaims, “greatly as I honour your courage, your fortitude, your skill, ask me not to return to Castile by such means. My sweet wife, the stars in their courses must have willed that I should die; leave me to my fate.”

“Never!” cries the valiant woman. “Here,” and she plunges her hand into her bosom, “is the poison. If you do not fly, I will swallow it before your eyes.”

A gesture of horror is his reply.

“Besides,” she continues, her face lighting up. “What have I to fear? Danger to my life there is none! You cannot imagine my own aunt would murder me! Away, away, or some fatal accident may hinder!”

Meanwhile, what pen shall paint the anxiety of the king? How minute by minute he pictured each detail of the agonies of the expiring Conde. Truly the possession of Castile seemed to his guilty mind at that moment too small a boon to compensate for the throes of his guilty conscience. Had such tortures continued, Sancho would never have come down to posterity with the surname of “the Fat,” but rather have melted into a shadow in the land of dreams! At last, unable any longer to bear such suspense, he called a page, and commanded that the pilgrim should be brought before him.

“He is gone,” replies one of the officers of the prison, who has presented himself to reply.

“Gone!” shouts Sancho, “without my leave? What does this mean? Is the Conde safe?”

“Safe, indeed,” answers the officer; “but half an hour ago I carried him a meal, by special order, and a good one.”

“A meal?” quoth the king, utterly amazed. “Could he eat?”

“Surely,” is the answer, “and glad he seemed to get it.”

“Did he not appear to suffer? Was he—well—did nothing ail him?”

“Nothing, my liege. I never saw a prisoner more débonnaire, but he seems grown strangely short to my eyes; he certainly has dwindled.”

“You are a fool!” cries the irritated king; “I must look into this matter myself. Bring him to my presence.”

“By the rood, but he does seem strangely altered,” mutters the king, as the prisoner stands before him. “Surely”—and a suspicion shoots through his mind, to be dismissed at once as ridiculous, as they approach each other.

“Well, Sir Conde, are the prisons of Leon better guarded than those of Narbonne?” he asks, with a sneer.

“Much better, Sir King, one can escape more easily. For a sovereign so versed in plots and conspiracies—murder even”—(at this word the king gives a great start)—“you are marvellously at ease.”

King Sancho became so bewildered, his head was going round. Was he bewitched? Was this the Conde or not? And if not, who?

Then Doña Ava, speaking in her own natural voice, broke out into peals of laughter.

“Surely, Don Sancho, a bachelor like you cannot be so ungallant as to imprison a lady.”

“A lady! A woman! God’s mercy! what does this mean? Who has dared to deceive me?”

“I,” answered the Infanta. “Shower your wrath on me, your kinswoman. May I not be a deceiver when so many of my blood excel? The queen, for instance? Now look at me, Sancho, and let this folly end.”

And the king did look, and into a most towering passion he fell, using more bad language than I care to repeat.

“A curse upon you!” are his first intelligible words. “Where is that villain, your husband?”

“In Castile,” she answers, “or far on the way. Never fear, he will soon return to settle accounts with you.”

“False woman,” and the king, fuming with a sense of intolerable wrong at having been made such a fool of, lifts his hand as if to strike her, “learn to fear my vengeance!”

“Not I,” is her answer, laughing again. “You dare do nothing to me, and my loved lord is free, skimming like a fleet bird over the plains. I fear you not, you dastard king!”

Consigning the Infanta into the hands of the palace guards, Don Sancho rushed off to the apartments of the queen. For once that wicked woman was powerless. No one dared harm Doña Ava, especially as rapid news soon spread of the wild joy with which Fernan had been received in Burgos, and that, at the head of his army, he was marching on Leon.

On the other hand, the dark King of Navarre, hard pressed by the Moors, executing forays into the north, as the safety of his daughter was at stake, refused to use his troops for her capture; thus the King of Leon was left alone to bear the brunt of the attack, pillaging, demolishing, and burning in true mediæval style.

But Queen Doña Teresa still held good.

“Keep her close. She shall not go, without the ransom of half his kingdom,” were her words.

“Now, by Santiago!” exclaims the exasperated king, “ransom or no ransom, she shall go. You ruined the kingdom in my father’s time, but, by heaven! you shall not play the same game with me!”

For once the fat king insists. The Condesa de Castila is to be restored to her husband, on condition of the withdrawal of his troops. All seems accommodated when an unexpected difficulty arises.

That little account for the horse and the hawk, which had so pleased the King of Leon on his cousin’s first visit, accepted on the condition of making payment in a year or of doubling the price, had never been settled, and it had grown so enormous that King Sancho found himself at a loss to find the money. Convenient Jews did not exist in those days as we read of later in the time of the Cid. Now, even a royal debtor looks round in vain for help.

It was in vain that King Sancho cursed the horse and cursed the hawk, then cursed them both together; that did no good, the debt remained unpaid. In this world from little causes spring great events. That horse and hawk, so innocently purchased from the bright-faced Conde, were finally the cause of the independence of Castile. Not able to discharge the debt, King Don Sancho agreed to free Castile from all vassalage to Leon. And the Conde and the Infanta rode back in triumph to Burgos, as the founders of that dynasty which became the most powerful and glorious of the Peninsula, to merge at last in the royal crown of Spain.

CHAPTER XXVI

The Cid—1037

From the time of Fernan Gonzales, Castile became a kingdom instead of a county, as the Conde would have had it, only he died too soon; and though still mixed up in continual battles with the Moors about Saragossa, Toledo, Merida, Samego, and Badajos (each town and city a small kingdom of its own), the greater part of the north-centre of Spain belonged to the Christians, rough warriors for the most part and fond of fighting, of little education, narrow-minded, poor, and rapacious. So poor indeed and rapacious that they constantly served the Moors against themselves as condottieri, or mercenaries, as is heard of later in French and Italian wars.

Now the Moors might be cruel and bloodthirsty, but their crimes were those of a highly civilised race, the very salt of the earth compared to the Gothic Spaniards—only the Moors were falling gradually asunder by reason of dissensions amongst the various races of which the nation was composed.

So the Christians grew bold as the others waxed weak, and though Fernando el Magno committed the folly of dividing his kingdom among his five children, it all came together again under his unscrupulous successor, Alonso el Valiente, sixth of that name (1173).

Fernando el Magno was out and out the most powerful king that had reigned in Spain since the time of Roderich. He held an iron grip on the Moors, with great cities tributary to him. In fact, it was only the payment of heavy tribute which kept them in possession so long. Money was money in those days, from whatever source it came, and in the impoverished north there was little of it.

Fernando was a good king, according to his lights, upon whose conscience the murder of his brother-in-law Bernardo lay lightly. Had he not slain Bernardo, Bernardo would undoubtedly have killed him, in which case royal murder comes under the head of self-defence. So he reigned happily at Burgos, and had born to him a numerous family. Doña Urraca, the Infanta, was his eldest child, a most excellent lady of good customs and beauty, the Infante Don Sancho, who was to make much noise in the world, was his heir, and Don Alonso and Don Garcia were his younger sons.

Fernando put them all to read that they might gain understanding, and he made his sons knights to carry arms and know how to demean themselves in battle, also to be keen huntsmen. Doña Urraca was brought up in the studies becoming dames, so that she might be instructed in devotion and all things which it behoved an Infanta to know.

But there is one fact which makes the name of Fernando remembered to all time, for in his reign was born at Burgos, Rodrigo Diaz de Bivar, known as the famous Capitán, the Cid Campeador.

Beside the glittering vision of Santiago, the tutelary saint of Spain, in white armour, waving celestial banners, rises the image of the Cid. Encased in steel, he sits proudly astride on his good horse Babieca; a close casque on his head, under which a pair of all-seeing eyes gaze fiercely out, giving expression to the strongly marked features of a thin long face, with wildly flying beard. His scimitar hangs at his side, and at his waist, encircled by a leather thong, the formidable sword “Tizona” he alone can wield. A loose white garment or kilt floats out from under his armour, metal buskins are on his legs, and he is shod in steel.

Thus he appears, with mighty action, an aureole of power about him not to be put in words, “the Cid” or “Master”—the terror of the Moors, the scourge of traitorous kings, marking an epoch, and a principle, lifting him out of the confused chivalry of the Goths, and standing out clear from shifting details into the light of day.

Cunning, astute, and valorous, implacable in conquest, sanguinary in victory, he fought while he lived. A king in all but the name, and proud of it, boasting with haughty scorn, “That none of his blood were royal”; “That he had never possessed an acre,” “But that the city of Valencia had pleased him, and that God had permitted him to take it as his own.” “Spain,” he said, “had fallen by a Roderich, and by a Roderich it should be restored.”

Now he was battling with the Christian king, then he was making alliance with the Moors, when banished, on his own account—to his own advantage ever—por murzar, as he said (to eat).

For in the midst of all his glory the Cid was practical at heart, and at all times, be it owned, a sad ruffian (though ever tender to his own), and more keen and cruel in a bargain than a Jew.

CHAPTER XXVII

Don Diego Laynez and the Conde de Gormez

Of the Cathedral I say nothing, because the present one was built later by Fernando el Santo, but the line of towers of the Gothic castle stood out darkly prominent on the hill behind—Calle Alta, as it was called—as old as 300; the fortress and residence of the Condes de Castila, and the place where the bright-faced Fernan Gonzales lived his merry life, shutting up his prisoners—Garcia, King of Navarre, Doña Ava’s treacherous father, for a year, and other kings and queens too numerous to mention,—with celebrations of royal births and marriages a score; the old church of Sant’ Agueda, an “Iglesia juradera” (church of purgation), on the brow of the hill, the family posada, or house of the Cid, to be seen to this day, the ancestral shields hung outside on pedestals forming part of the front, setting forth the quarterings of Laynez Calvo, of ancient Castilian lineage, the father of the Cid; a priceless old Suelo, on which you can still observe the measure of the Cid’s arm, marked on marble; and the mouth of a mediæval passage through which he could ride into the plains with his men without being seen by the citizens in the streets below.

At this moment “the child of Burgos,” as the Cid is called, has thrown aside his warlike accoutrements, having been present at a council at the Ayuntamiento presided over by the king, and is now on his way to visit his lady love, Doña Ximena, the daughter of the Conde de Gormez.

As he passes along the Calle, gay as a butterfly in the bright sunshine, under the barbicans and towers which so nobly break the lines, it may be said he has too much of a swagger in his gait, but he has reason to be proud, for, young as he is, Doña Ximena loves him, and the good old King Fernando has admitted him to his council because he is already strong in arms and of good custom.

Just as Don Rodrigo has passed out of the Palace of Ayuntamiento (town hall) in the great plaza, its front honeycombed with sculptured cornices, badges, and devices on a warmly tinted stone, two hidalgos appear under the arched doorway talking loud.

“I tell you the king does wrong,” the younger man is saying in a loud voice—no other than the Conde Don Gormez, with flashing eyes, moving with a haughty swagger, a tall olive-complexioned Castilian in cap and plume, laced boots, and ample cloak, “very wrong in affronting the Emperor of Germany and the Pope in a little state like Castile.”

“The king does right,” answers the other, very determinedly, but in a feebler voice, for he is stricken in years. “What, Conde Don Gormez, would you have Castile do? Become bounden to a foreign power, when we have so lately gained our freedom from Leon?”

“I think the matter ill-considered,” is the reply; “but of course you approve it, Don Diego Laynez. The king is old and foolish, and loves age and infirmity about him. No one exceeds you now in arrogance, since your young son Rodrigo sits by you at the council. He is reported of good courage against the Moors, but his youth makes him incompetent to advise the king.”

“Conde Gormez,” answers the other, reddening with anger, “your indiscreet words prove that it is not age or experience which gives judgment.”

“What do you mean, Don Diego?” asks the

Conde fiercely. “I allow no observations on my conduct.”

“I do not condescend to fathom it,” is the answer, with a contemptuous glance. “Jealousy and thirst for power——”

“Take that, old fool,” cried the Conde, silencing him with a sounding blow on the cheek, which made him reel backwards against the wall.

He could not speak, all his passion had vanished in the humiliation of being struck. White and tottering he stood, while his trembling hand sought the hilt of his sword.

“Mother of God!” he said at last, “you had better have finished me altogether than put this insult on me. Is it that you deem my arm so weak you mock me, Sir Count?” And as he spoke, with difficulty he drew his sword.

“Perhaps it is,” replies the other with an insolent laugh. “Put up your weapon, old man, or worse may come to you.”

“No, no,” returns Don Diego, the colour mounting to his cheek as his fingers feel the temper of the blade; “as knight to knight, who have so often stood side by side in battle, I demand a fair fight and no quarter.”

“As you will,” he answers, and an evil fire comes into his eyes. “It is a favour which, at your age, you have no right to demand. If you desire to be spitted, I will oblige you all the same.”

And then and there he drew his rapier, and placed himself in a posture of defence.

But the combat was too unequal. It lasted but a few minutes. The Conde de Gormez was the first espadero in Castile, in the flower of his age, graceful, skilful, strong; Don Diego was old and weak. His blows fell like water on his stalwart adversary, who treated him as one does a wayward child.

“Mark you,” he said at last, throwing up Don Diego’s sword, “I spare your life. Go home, you dotard, and teach your son to hold his tongue before his betters and learn to be a wiser man.”

With that he sheathed his formidable weapon, turned his back, and with a quick step disappeared.

CHAPTER XXVIII

Don Rodrigo (the Cid) Kills the Conde de Gormez

“May their blessing be ever on you, my honoured father,” is the reply, as he stops to kiss his hand. “I was hastening home to tell you that the marriage is fixed, and that the king, Don Fernando, gives away the bride. But, father, are you ill?” noting his blanched aspect as his father leaned heavily upon him.

“Rodrigo,” he whispers, and with an unutterable expression of despair he looks into his eyes, “are you brave?”

“Sir!” answers Rodrigo, drawing back his arm, “any other but you should feel it on the instant.”

“Oh, blessed anger!” replies Don Diego, watching the deep flush mounting on his face, “you are indeed my son. My blood flows in your veins. I was like that once. Prompt, ready, dexterous. Rodrigo, will you avenge me?”

“For what?” asks Rodrigo, more and more perplexed.

“For that,” returns Don Diego—and as he speaks his voice gathers strength and he draws himself back, and stands upright before him—“which touches your honour as nearly as my own. A blow, a cruel blow! Had I been of your age, his blood would have wiped it out. But it is not with swords such an outrage is avenged. Go—die—or slay him. But I warn you, he is a hero. I have seen him in the front of a hundred battles, making a rampart of his body against the foe. He is——”

“Tell me, father, tell me!” exclaims Don Rodrigo, breathlessly following his father’s words.

“The father of Ximena.”

“The——”

No sound came to his white lips. As if struck by a mortal blow, Rodrigo staggered back against the sculptured pilasters of the Ayuntamiento.

“Speak not, my son,” says Don Diego, laying his hand upon him. “I know how much you love her. But he who accepts infamy is unworthy to live. I have told you vengeance is in your hand, for me, for you. Be worthy of your father, who was once a valiant knight. Go, I say,—rush—fly,—as though the earth burned under your footsteps! Nor let me behold you until you have washed out the stain!”

The chronicles say that, insolent as he was, the Conde de Gormez had already repented of his furious act. Certain of the wrath of the king, who greatly esteemed Don Diego Laynez, and shrinking from the reproaches of his daughter, he was preparing to leave the city when he came upon the Cid.

They met beside the banks of the Arlanzon, which still presents the sandy emptiness of an ill-fed river, under a screen of plane-trees whispering to the summer wind, the space without thronged with hidalgos and cheerful citizens in ample cloaks and capas muffled up to the eyes, spite of the heat, in true Castilian fashion.

As Don Rodrigo, with lofty stride, approached, the Conde stood still, guessing his errand.

Of all the knights of Castile, Don Gormez was a palm higher than the rest. A dark defiant head was firmly set on massive shoulders, youthful in aspect for his period of middle age, an approved and complete warrior at all points, and full to the brim, as one may say, of the chivalric traditions of the time.

Rodrigo beside him looked a slender youth; the down was on his cheek, the lustre of boyhood in his eyes, now dilated with fury as he drew near.

“Sir Conde,” he says shortly, as he doffs his cap, to which the other responds with a haughty smile, “I ask two words of you.”

“Speak!” is the Conde’s answer, twirling his moustache.

“Tell me, do you know Don Diego, my father?”

“Yes,” in a loud tone. “Why ask?”

“Speak lower. Listen. Do you know that in his time he was the honour of the land, brave as yourself? You know it?”

Nearer and nearer Rodrigo came as he spoke, until their faces almost touched.

“I care not,” is the answer, with a sneer.

“Stand back in the shade of that thicket and I will teach you,” roars the Cid, his rage bursting in all bounds.

“Presumptuous boy!” exclaims the Conde with ineffable scorn; yet, spite of his affected contempt, the words have stung him, and he turns crimson.

“I am young, it is true,” answers Rodrigo, “but once so were you. Valour goes not by the number of our years.”

“You—you dare to measure yourself with me!” cries he, losing all control in the climax of his rage.

“I do. I well know your prowess. You have always prevailed, but to him who fights for his father nothing is impossible. Come on, Sir Conde,” drawing his sword.

“Seek not so vainly to end your days,” answers Gormez, laying his hand on the hilt of his weapon. “Your death will be no credit to my sword.”

“Mock me not by this insulting pity,” answers Rodrigo, “or by God I shall think it is you who are tired of living, not I.” And as he speaks he strikes the Conde de Gormez with the flat of his sword.

The attack, on both sides is furious. Rodrigo grows cold with the thirst of vengeance; the Conde burns to cut off a life which rivals with his own.

But the sure aim of Rodrigo and his strength prevail. With one stroke of his good sword Tizona, he fells Gormez to the earth and plunges his weapon straight into his heart. Red with his life-blood he draws it out to bear it as a trophy to his father.

“Die! Lord of Gormez,” are his words, wiping his brow, as he watches the blood slowly ooze from the wound to mix itself, a sinister stream, with the sand. “Alas! had your courtesy equalled your knighthood and your birth, you might have lived to see your child’s children mine. Farewell, oh my enemy”; and he stoops reverently to cover the face of the dead with his mantle, reading the while with horror in the still set features the softer lineaments of his Ximena. “Alas!”—and his countenance darkens and he heaves a great sigh—“I am but Ruy Diaz, your lover, the most wretched of men! Oh! that I could lie there dead, instead of him! Ximena, oh, my love, will you ever forgive me?”

And sorrowing thus he turns away by intricate windings to mount the hill to the Suelos where Don Diego awaits him, seated in the hall, the food lying on the table before him untouched.

“Behold!” cries he, unsheathing the bloody sword. “The tongue which insulted you, Don Diego, is no longer a tongue; the hand which struck you is no longer a hand. You are avenged, oh, my father, and I——”

He could not continue.

With a loud laugh Don Diego rose up, taking in his hand the blood-stained sword and placing it beside him on the board below the salt; then turned to embrace Rodrigo.

He spoke never a word, but stood like one stupefied, his arms folded on his breast, his eyes fixed on the ground.

“Son of my heart,” says Don Diego, “I pray you turn and eat. Mourn not what you have done. My youth comes back to me in you. Greater than me shall you be, and win back broad lands from the Moors, and be rich like a king, when I am low in the dust. Take the head of the board, Rodrigo. Higher than myself is the place of the son who has brought the sword of Conde Gormez to his Suelos. The place of honour is yours, and I will pledge you with wine.” And as he speaks the old man rises, and taking Rodrigo by the hand places him above him, and with his own hand serves him with meat and drink.

Poetry and the drama in latter days have much dealt with the story of the Cid, and altogether altered it from its ancient simplicity.

Not so the chronicles, which depict the facts in the language of the time very straightforwardly, specially the chronicle of King Alfonso of Castile, surnamed El Sabio, written soon after the Cid’s death. If not penned by the hand of the king himself, at least it was largely dictated by him, and not at all partial, for as King of Castile he deeply resented the rebellion of the Cid against his father Alonso.

CHAPTER XXIX.

Marriage of the Cid and Doña Ximena

From that day he was called the Cid Campeador. It was the Moors who gave him the title of “Said” (Cid) or “master,” so often had he beaten them, and Campeador, or “champion” in single combat, such as was Roland the Brave, slain by Bernardo del Carpio.

Especially he deserved these honours when he overcame five Moorish kings, who had presumptuously crossed the mountain of Oca, and were plundering the plains near Burgos. He took them captive, divided the booty with his knights, and brought them to his mother in the Suelos on the hill with great honour. “For it is not meet,” he said, “to keep kings prisoners, but to let them go freely home.”

Like a practical man, however, as he was, he demanded a large ransom.

Fernando, who loved Rodrigo, endeavoured to end the feud between the families of Gormez and Laynez. Nor was it difficult. Don Diego, full of years, slept the sleep of death. The lord of Gormez was slain, and Ximena was left, the youngest of three daughters.

The age was one of war, and knightly honour counted as the highest virtue in a man.

So when the king called her to him in the castle, Ximena answered, falling on her knees before him, according to the love she bore Rodrigo.

“Don King Fernando,” she said, “had you not sent for me, I would have craved as a boon that you would give me Rodrigo to be my husband. With him I shall hold myself well married, and greatly honoured. Certain I am that he will one day be greater than any man in the kingdom of Castile, and as his wife I truly pardon him for what he did.”

So King Fernando ordered letters to be sent to the Cid at Valencia, commanding him at once to return to Burgos upon an affair greatly for God’s service and his own.

He came mounted on his war-horse, attired in his fairest suit of chain armour, wearing that high steel cap in which we see him now; his rippling braids of hair hanging down on his shoulders in the ancient fashion of the Goths, and in his company were many knights, both his own and of his kindred and friends—in all two hundred peers—in festive guise, streamers in various colours flying from their shields, and scarfs upon their arms, each knight attended by a mounted squire bearing his lance and cognisance.

In the courtyard of the castle beside the keep the king received them sitting on his throne; the queen and her ladies and Doña Urraca, resting on raised estrades tented with silk, attired in brocade and tissue, lined with rare fur.

As he entered the enclosure which was marked with gilded poles, the Cid dismounted, as did the other knights, to do obeisance to the king and queen, but he alone advanced to kiss the royal hand—a distinction which greatly offended his fellows, who were further angered by being dismissed while Rodrigo was invited to remain beside the king.

“I have called you, my good Rodrigo,” said King Fernando, with a voice lowered to reach his ear alone, “to question you respecting Doña Ximena de Gormez, whose sire you slew. She is too fair a flower to bloom alone.”

At these words Don Rodrigo reddened like a boy and hung his head.

So greatly was he moved who had never known fear that the power of speech left him suddenly, and for a time he stood like one distraught. Whether the eyes of Doña Urraca being upon him he was confused, or that the transport of love he felt for Ximena overcame him, who knows?

“Speak, noble Cid, I pray you,” said the king at last, weary of waiting.

“It is for you, my gracious lord and king, to question me,” was at last his answer. “Alas! her blood is on my hand.”

“In fair fight,” was the rejoinder, “as becomes a belted knight. But the lady already forgives you, and would rejoice to be your bride. I have it from herself. Nor shall my favour be wanting to you both in lands and gifts.”

Then Rodrigo raised his head proudly, and his face lit with joy. Whatever tokens had passed between him and Doña Urraca, it was clear he had not forgotten his love to Ximena, nor questioned the claim she had upon him.

“In this, as in all else, I will obey my lord the king,” he said again, making obeisance on bended knee. “Dear shall Ximena be to me as my own life, and my honoured mother shall tend and keep her in our house while I am away on my lord’s business against the Moors.”

King Don Fernando, greatly contented, rose from his throne, and bidding Don Rodrigo follow him, he passed into the great court of the castle followed by the queen and Doña Urraca, already of great courage, and casting glances at the Cid from under the silken coil which bound her head. Not so hidden but that some of the court observed her, and remembered it later at Zamora, when the Cid refused to bear arms against her.

Within the great hall of the castle the marriage feast is held. The whole city is hung with garlands and tapestry, banners, flags, and devices, as though each street is a separate tent; the people swarming on balconies and roofs, and the sandy plain outside dark with the companies of knights who come riding in. All the great names are there—Ordoñez, Gonzalez, Peranzurez, Vellidas, on fleet Arab steeds; some rich turbans also of the Moors to be distinguished in the crowd, for the parties are so strangely mixed that the Cid has many close friends among his enemies. Crowds of the common folk come, and retainers from the castle of Bivar, each one with some story to tell about the Cid. From Las Huelgas, the royal burying-ground and fortress, surrounded by walls, a mile out of the city, arrives the abbess, who takes rank as a Princess Palatine, attended by her female chapter, in the full dress of the order, all mounted on mules; monks from the Church of San Pedro de Cardeña, the burying place of the Laynez, and companies of the Ricoshombres from the adjacent cities, trotting over the hills—all disappearing into the huge gateway of Santa Maria to reach the Calle Alta, where the procession is to be formed.

The first to appear is the Bishop of Valencia on a mule. He is followed by the Cid, decked in his bridal state, under a trellis-work of green branches, held up by the lances and scimitars he has taken from the Moors, his own troop of true men with him, friends and kinsmen—all dressed in one colour, and shining in new armour.

As he passes, olive branches and rushes are laid upon the streets, ladies fling posies and wreaths, and bulls are led before with gilded horns, covered with rich housings. The court fool follows in cap and bells, his particoloured legs astride an ass. A harmless devil comes after, horned and hoofed, hired to frighten the women, and crowds of captive maidens dance to cymbals and flutes. The Queen Doña Sancha walks next, wearing her crown and a “fur pall,” attended by her ladies and dueñas, but the name of Doña Urraca nowhere occurs.

Then, hand in hand with the smiling king, comes Ximena; “the king always talking,” as the ballad says, but Ximena holding down her head. “It is better to be silent than meaningless,” she said.

Upon her fall showers of yellow wheat. Every shooter, young and old, makes her his mark. From her white shoulders and breast the king picks it off. “A fine thing to be a king,” laughs the fool, “but I would rather be a grain.”

In the Gothic Church of Sant’ Agueda, close on the hill, the nuptial knot is tied. After which the king does them great honour at the feast, conferring on them many noble gifts and adding to the lands of the Cid more than as much again.

To his own Suelos on the hill (for indeed all these great doings were confined to a very narrow space), the Cid conducts his bride, to place her under his mother’s keeping, and as his foot touches his own threshold, under the escutcheon of his race, he pauses and kisses her on the cheek. “By the love I bear you, dear Ximena, I swear that I will never set eyes on you again until I have won five pitched battles against the Moors.” Again he kisses her, drying her tears; then goes out to the frontier of Aragon, taking with him his trusty knights.

CHAPTER XXX

Death of King Fernando—Doña Urraca at Zamora

Fernando, suffering great anguish, had turned his face to the wall to die, when his daughter Doña Urraca came rushing in.

“Oh, father!” cries she, kissing his hand, “if God had not laid His hand upon you, and brought you to this death hour, I should reproach you bitterly. It is well known you have meted out your kingdom between my three brothers. To me alone you give nothing. Why should your daughter be left to be blown like a waif before the wind? Whither can I fly? Shall I address myself to the Moors for protection. A fine sight, indeed, will it be to see a king’s daughter brought to such a pass!”

Now Doña Urraca was a princess of great presence and power in her speech. Her words were cutting, and they roused even the dying king. Slowly he turned on his side to look at her, and though his lips were already livid his eyes showed he understood; thrice he essayed to speak; at last, between pangs of mortal pain, the words came forth:

“Cease, Urraca, cease; a noble mother bore you, but a churlish slave gave you milk. Take Zamora for your portion; may my curse fall on any of your brothers who take it from you.”

“Swear to me, my sons.”

“Amen,” answered Don Alfonso heartily, for he loved his sister. Don Garcia, the youngest, repeated the same; only Don Sancho moved his lips, but no word came.

Zamora la ben cercada, a Moorish fortress as the name indicates, lately conquered by Fernando, stands on the river Duero, which flows away to the west through a beautifully wooded valley, in the kingdom of Leon, between Valladolid and Medina. It was then surrounded by seven lines of walls, with deep moats between. From the bridge by the city walls is still to be seen the ruins of the palace of Doña Urraca, with her likeness, a mutilated head in a niche over the gateway, and the inscription, Afuera Afuera Rodrigo el soberbio Castellano.

Within her council chamber sits the Infanta, the white coif of a queen under a Gothic crown on her auburn head and long robes of black about her stately form. She is accustomed to the calm majesty of state, but her blue eyes shine with wonderful lustre, and, spite of herself, her fingers move nervously on the rich carving of her chair. The Cid Campeador is coming, sent by her brother Don Sancho, who is encamped outside, and has ridden three times round the walls to study the defences, attended by his knights.

For no sooner was the breath out of his father’s body than he attacked his brothers, and now he is come to take Zamora.

With Doña Urraca in the council chamber are Don Pero Anonras, Don Vellido, and Dolfos, a knight of no good fame, but devoted to her service.

The Cid enters in full armour, a green feather in his casque. His face has lost the sweetness of youth, and is hard and thin, the nose arched and prominent in advanced life, and his eyes of such searching fierceness that he terrifies his enemies before he draws his sword.

Not now; for as the Infanta hastens to the door to greet him, and he sinks on one knee to kiss her dimpled hand, his face melts into the most winning softness, and he smiles on her as she leads him to the estrade, enclosed by golden banisters, within which her chair of state is placed.

“Now, Cid,” says Doña Urraca, when they have seated themselves, “what is my brother about to do? All Spain is in arms. Is it against the Moors or the Christians?”

“Lady,” he answers—and the tone of his voice is wonderfully subdued—“the king your brother sends to greet you by me. He beseeches you to give up to him the fortress of Zamora; he will in return swear never to do you harm.”

“And you, Don Ruy Diaz de Bivar, bring me such a message!” she exclaims, half rising from her chair, a great reproach coming into her blue eyes; “you, who have been brought up with me in this very city of Zamora, which my father conquered!”

“I did not want to be the messenger,” replies the Cid, gazing into her comely face with a great freedom of admiration, “except that I might again see my Infanta, and give her some comfort. I strove with the king not to send me. How could I refuse him whom I have sworn to stand by? Better I than another man.”

“That is true,” she replies, “but I think before you swore to the king, my father, you had bound yourself to me.”

Now this speech put the Cid in a great strait. He and Doña Urraca had had love passages together as long as he could remember, yet he had wooed another and married her, and the Infanta was still alone. The Cid was great in battle, but he was simple in the language of love. All he could do was to hang his head and blush, which made Doña Urraca very angry.

“Wretch that I am!” cries she, clasping her hands, “what evil messages have I had since my father’s death? This is the worst of all. As for my brothers, Alfonso is among the Moors; Garcia imprisoned like a slave with an iron chain; I must give up Zamora; and Ruy Diaz, my playmate is come to tell me so! Now may the earth open and swallow me up that I may not suffer so many wrongs! Remember, I am a woman!”

To all this the Cid answers nothing. He is bound by his oath to the king, but his darkened countenance shows how much he is moved as he sits straight upright on the estrade, contemplating the face of Doña Urraca.

Then her foster-father, Don Arias Gonzalo, stands out from the other counsellors, and says, “Lady Doña Urraca, prove the men of Zamora, whether they will cleave to you or to Don Sancho.” To which she agrees, and calling in her ladies to bring her mantilla and manto, she goes out through the broad corridor of the palace in which the banners and the armour are hung, by the gateway with her effigy over it, down to the church of San Salvador; the Cid, as her brother’s messenger, walking on her right hand.

The townsmen arrive, called by the voice of Don Miño, and thus they speak:

“We beseech you, Doña Lady Infanta, not to give up Zamora. We will spend all our money, and devour our mules and horses; nay, even feast on our own children, in your defence. If you cleave to us, we will cleave to you.”

Doña Urraca was well pleased. She had a bitter tongue but a warm heart, and now it was touched. The beauty returned to her countenance as she turned it on the Cid, the stately beauty of royalty to which no lower born can attain.

“See, Cid Campeador,” she says, proudly launching on him a look out of her glowing eyes, “many kings would have envied you, who were bred up with me, yet you hold me of little count. Go to my brother, and entreat him to leave me alone. I would rather die with these men in Zamora than live elsewhere. Tell him what you have seen and heard, and may God speed you on the way.” With which answer the Cid departs.