By Frances Elliot
———
Old Court Life in France
Old Court Life in Spain

OLD COURT
LIFE IN SPAIN

BY
FRANCES ELLIOT
AUTHOR OF “OLD COURT LIFE IN FRANCE,” ETC.

ILLUSTRATED
———
VOLUME I.
———
G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
The Knickerbocker Press

The Knickerbocker Press, New York

To
MRS. HUMPHRY WARD
TO WHOSE RESEARCHES
I AM SO MUCH INDEBTED, THIS REVIVAL OF
OLD SPANISH TIMES
IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED

PREFACE

N no boastful spirit I gratefully acknowledge the flattering success of Old Court Life in France, written twenty years ago. It is precisely owing to the favour with which the public in England, America, and on the Continent still honour this work that I have endeavoured to reproduce on the same plan some pictures of early Spanish history comparatively little known to the general public.

Nothing can possibly be more thrilling and more romantic.

It is with the earlier and less known passages of old Court life I have dealt down to the reign of Ferdinand and Isabel, from which period the history of Spain loses its peculiar identity and becomes merged into that of Europe.

If I have loved the courtly history I also love the country. A great part of this work was written in Spain, in the very places where the events occurred. May the reader share the same enthusiasm I felt in describing them!

AUTHORITIES

Dozy—Histories.

Mrs. Humphry Ward in Smith’s Dictionary of Christian Biography on Gothic Ecclesiastical History.

Biographie Universelle.

Bradley—Story of the Nations.

Lane Poole—The Moors.

Romanceros, Ballads of the Cid, Ballads of Bernardo del Carpio.

Lockhart—Spanish Ballads.

Cid Campeador, by Prince Odescalchi.

Storia de Don Pedro Abogado da los Tribunales Nacionales.

Chronicles of King Alfonso El Sabio.

Washington Irving’s Works.

Murray’s Guide for Spain.

Diary of an Idle Woman in Spain.

Prescott’s History of Ferdinand and Isabel.

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS IN PHOTOGRAVURE

Old Court Life in Spain

CHAPTER I
Introduction

OW great is Spain! How mighty! From the rugged mountains of the Asturias, their base washed by stormy waves, and the giddy heights of the Pyrenean precipices—an eternal barrier between rival peoples—to the balmy plains of the South, where summer ever reigns! A world within itself, with a world’s variety! Quien dice España dice todo!

And its history is as varied as the land. First, according to the legend, Hercules set his pillars, or “keys”—the ne plus ultra of land and sea—on the rock of Calpe (Gibraltar) in Europe, and on Abyla (Ceuta) in Africa. And, that no one should doubt it, he placed his temple on the water-logged flats, half-sea, half-land, behind Cadiz, long remembered by the Moors as the “district of Idols,” near the city of Gades, where Geryon dwelt, from whom Hercules “lifted” that troop of fat oxen which he was destined so long to drive wearily about the earth. In memory of all which Charles the Fifth, the great Emperor, carried Hercules’ pillars on his shield, with the proud motto, Ne plus ultra, and the city of Cadiz (Gades) still bears them as its arms.

Then, tradition past, came invaders from the earliest times, Celts, Phœnicians, and Greeks, driving the Iberians from their rightful lands. The Carthaginians, too, crossed from Africa along the southern coast, and settled at Cartagena, which still bears their name.

The Romans next appeared, victorious under Pompey and Cæsar, spreading over Spain, but especially powerful at Seville, Cordoba, Toledo, Segovia, and Tarragona, where they have left their mark in mighty monuments.

A race of uncivilised warriors followed from the North, so powerful that two Roman emperors perished in battle with them. Of the precise seat of the Gothic nation it is hard to speak with certainty. It is, however, known that they came from the extreme north, spreading to the borders of the Black Sea, into Asia Minor in the east, and to the south of Spain in the west. They are mentioned by Pliny, about sixty years before Christ, and later by Tacitus, who twice refers to them as “Gothones.” There were so many tribes, Visigoths, Astrogoths, Gepidæ, and even Vandals, that their story is as a tangled web, mixed with that of all nations, but it is clear that those who concern our present purpose came down into Spain from Narbonne and Toulouse.

It is strange how soon these savage northmen discarded their wooden idols, Woden, Thor, and Balder, the gods of thunder and of the sun—so that when Constantine the Great christianised the world, the Gothic chief Wulfila was ready to become a convert. Who this Wulfila was, and how he came to be at Constantinople, is not clear. As Bishop of the Goths he returned to missionarise his countrymen, the Dacian tribes, in the mighty plains of Philippopolis (A.D. 310-314), and made a translation of the Bible into Gothic. Even in our own day something of this precious manuscript remains, beautifully written in letters of gold on purple vellum, at the Swedish University of Upsala.

From the earliest times the Goths had a rude alphabet (Runes), which Wulfila increased, with letters closely resembling English, in his translation of the Scriptures.

Rude indeed! The letters were formed by staves on wooden boards, but all the same were destined to become most ornamental. Gothic letters are still in use for decorative purposes. Numerous Gothic manuscripts exist, written in these picturesque characters, and the inscription over the portal of Pedro el Cruel at the Alcazar at Seville is in Gothic. To this day, too, in the Muzaraba Chapel, under the eastern tower of the Cathedral of Toledo, the service is celebrated according to the Christian rite from Gothic missals, dating from the time of King Recaredo.

The line of Gothic rulers in Spain lasted for nearly two centuries and a half. No less than thirty kings succeeded each other in that period, most of whom died either by violence or in battle.

Alaric, “the scourge of God,” never came into Spain, but Eurico, his immediate successor, did. Eurico was the greatest warrior of his time, and so versed in Christian polemics that he insisted on the entire nation becoming Arians like himself. Nothing but the close contact of the Goths with that hotbed of heresy, Constantinople, can account for a semi-barbarian indulging in a choice of divers forms of doctrine, nor for the power the Gothic bishops arrogated to themselves after the precedent of the Eastern prelates up to the time of Witica. Like the Greek patriarchs they were mixed up in every political intrigue, conspiracy, and revolution; made and unmade kings at their pleasure, and greatly influenced the ecclesiastical world by the decrees of their councils at Toledo. The Goths were, indeed, for ages a priest-ridden nation, and the names of their great archbishops have come down to us as landmarks in the land.

So high did party feeling run between Arians and Orthodox that Leovigildô caused his only son to be executed because he had called an Arian bishop “a servant of the devil,” and refused to “communicate” with him. Yet Leovigildô was a great king according to his lights, sat on a raised throne among his long-haired chiefs, and had money coined in his name bearing an effigy of himself. Even now a dim halo of the pomp of the Basileus seems to shine around him, as we picture him wearing the Gothic crown, clothed in an ermine mantle, with the purple sandals of empire on his feet.

How early is the religion of peace turned to strife! We are in the sixth century among a new race, and already the flames of persecution are blazing. Two parties divide the kingdom, “the bigots” and “the Romanisers,” degenerate Goths, who aspire in dress and manners to ape the culture of Byzantium, as opposed to the cloddish habits of the “bigots,” content to know how to master a horse, draw the long bow, launch the javelin, and follow their king to battle. Whether this type of original Goth would have brought back the worship of Thor and Woden does not appear. At least under these idols there was unity; the sacrifice of human victims formed a convenient method of getting rid of prisoners, and the temporary altars among migratory tribes, served by male and female priests, were simple and convenient.

But Recaredo, on his accession, settled the question by becoming (like the mass of his subjects) a Catholic, after a synod of sixty-seven bishops, held at Toledo, had solemnly decided in favour of the orthodoxy of that Church. Perhaps his religious divergences might not have been so unquestioningly accepted, had he not defeated King Gouteran and 60,000 Franks. A Goth must know how to fight, or he was nothing; and thus it came to pass that the theology of a commander, brave enough to hurl destruction on his foes, was thankfully accepted.

Unlike the majority of his predecessors, Recaredo died in his bed (A.D. 601), applauded by all men for his wisdom in completing the union of the conquered Iberians with the Goths, and forming what was destined to become the future kingdom of Spain.

Eleven kings pass, and now (A.D. 680) Recesvinto, whom all men loved, son of Chindavinto, lies dead upon a bed of state, raised on a dais, draped with purple hangings; the four pillars of the canopy are plated with sheets of gold, and a crown formed by strings of jewels, depending from a circlet set with uncut stones, hangs over his head.

So bushy and matted is his hair—worn in the fashion of the Goths, in long loose curls—and so thick his beard, that the sunken features of the good old King are almost hidden. For twenty-three years Recesvinto has reigned in peace, and now he lies in honoured death, while gathered around him is such pomp as the nation possesses of golden crome and kingly insignia; ermine-lined robe, and silken vest, sandals and buskins laced with gold, the baton of command and the Gothic sceptre long borne in battle by their kings.

The vaulted chamber in which he lies in the castle of Gerticos is lined with planks of shining pine, on which some rude embroidery is stretched. The hallowed roof is formed of thick beams and rafters, and huge fireplaces flank either end, filled now with strong-smelling herbs, rosemary and wild myrtle, lavender and thyme, loose sprigs of which, with yew and cypress, are strewn on the rudely worked counterpane which covers the corpse. Broadswords with huge hilts are crossed upon the walls, along with solidly embossed shields and heavily topped lances, the implements of the chase, and skins of wolves and deer, which have fallen by the prowess of those royal hands, now lying white and cold in death, crossed on his breast, clasping a crucifix! Saddles, too, and the silver trappings of his war-horse, are there, and Runic bracelets, collars, and buckles; all the paraphernalia of a Gothic chief, come down from Dacian ancestors, ranged on tables full in the crimson rays of the setting sun, streaming through the small bars of the uncurtained casements, and illuminating each detail in flickering patches as of flame.

On an oaken bench an altar has been raised to receive his last confession, devoutly made, as he felt death approaching. The Eucharist is still present in a jewelled box, the cup, platter, and crucifix, while priests and acolytes, in stoles and copes, offer up silent prayers for his departed soul. Clouds of incense darken the room and mount into the lofty vaulting of the roof in huge shadowy masses, which to the superstitious mind might shape into the outlines of dead Gothic kings, hovering over the form of the royal brother who has joined them in the world beyond.

Around the chamber are gathered the warriors and chiefs who have followed him in battle, habited in the full loose garments of peace, bound in with girdles and waistbands. Tall, strong men, with blue eyes and fair skins, who, by their dress, might be mistaken for Roman senators, save for the pervading colour of their abundant hair, passing from every tint of pale straw colour to a dull red, their bare arms circled with bracelets and amulets, on which, spite of Christian doctrine, charms and cabalistic signs are engraved.

Chief among them stands Hilderic, Governor of Nîmes (for the south of France up to the centre is Gothic), a massive, large-limbed man of brutal courage, whose life has passed in feuds and battles with Franks and Basques, never hesitating at any act of cruelty that would extend his power. A fierce crimson hue is on his broad face from constant exposure, and there are scars on neck and cheek, calculated to inspire sympathy with his courage, if his ferocious expression did not turn them rather into a cause of dread. Beside him stands Gunhild of Maguelone, a turbulent soldier of inferior position, wanting in the authority assumed by Hilderic.

Both these ambitious chiefs have been intriguing for the crown, as Recesvinto grew old, hating each other bitterly while he lived, and now that he is dead, bearing themselves with an irreverent indifference painful to behold, talking in loud whispers to those about, and laughing at rude jokes, especially Hilderic, who stands apart stroking the head of a favourite wolf-dog of gigantic size.

Beside them is a Greek, Paul by name, who has made his way into favour by extraordinary valour. Of his origin no one is certain; of polished exterior, his superior civilisation is apparent in manners and in dress, much more gaudy and ornate than that of the rest. A mantle of fine blue cloth falls in ample folds about his graceful form, with a certain Oriental amplitude easy to distinguish, and in his hand he carries a scarlet cap.

Paul is to head a revolution by-and-by, under Hilderic; then, unsuccessful, to be dragged by the hair of his head (more Gotico), between two horses—friends and allies to-day, mortal enemies to-morrow—such is the custom of these chiefs, often incited by the rancour of the women, who appear in history as more bloodthirsty, if possible, than the men.

Aëtius is there also, and Turismundo and Sisenanth, all mighty nobles, and placed modestly behind a noble Goth, verging into years, noticeable for the merciful disposition expressed in his wrinkled face; Wamba is his name, the friend of the oppressed and of the tillers of the soil, poor slaves whom no man heeds—even of the Jews, whom he insists upon treating as members of the great human family; a brave, determined man of the old Dacian type, notable among the fiery spirits around. As he has great possessions, to which he attends himself, he is known as “the farmer,” in derision of his simple tastes. Wamba is no kinsman to Recesvinto, but a whisper has gone forth that he is destined to succeed him. The Church, at this time most powerful, favours him, and he is the only chief present whose record is free from crime. Many and many a time he has fought shoulder to shoulder with the king who now lies dead. To him the funeral chamber brings a genuine sorrow—not even pretended by the rest—and as he gazes on the features of his friend, tears rise and moisten his eyes.

Behind Wamba stands his beloved follower, Ervig, a youth whose olive-complexioned face and clear brown eyes show alien blood. His mother, a Gothic princess, was kinswoman to King Chindavinto, but his father was a Greek. As yet no one reads the unscrupulous ambition of his soul. Indeed, he hardly realises it himself. Crime often lies dormant in seemingly innocent natures, until occasion discovers it. The evil spirit within him is to be developed by the indulgence of his patron Wamba, who, unknowingly, is warming a serpent in his breast.

All present fall back as Julianus, the Archbishop of Toledo, enters. He has hurried from Toledo to be present ere the old king breathes his

last. But death waits for no man. As he enters the homely chamber of death with an overwhelming majesty of look and manner, his cold, impassive glance dominates them all. Nor is the dignity of costume wanting. His monastic mantle is secured at the neck by a golden clasp, and drapes heavily about him; the sleeves of his tunic are lined with precious fur; on his finger is the pastoral ring, and from his neck is suspended a jewelled cross; a dress at once simple and costly, answering to the imperious expression of his face, looking out from the folds of a dark silken cowl, which falls back from his head, his deeply-sunk eyes taking in at a glance all the details around him.

Julianus is the foremost prelate in learning and power the Goths ever had. Next, indeed, in historical importance to Isidor of Seville, though much earlier in point of date; his influence and preponderance are at this time supreme. Possibly he was by birth a Jew, though early attached to the Chapter of Toledo. A churchman of great literary gifts, restless, unscrupulous, ambitious; the very Hildebrand of those early times, who raised the see of Toledo to a position of unparallelled supremacy, presiding during his life at various councils most important in the history of the mediæval church.

The archbishop is attended by his secretary, a lay brother, habited in black, carrying papers, who (as reflecting the tyranny of his master) stands, without daring to raise his eyes, more like an automaton than a living man.

The only one whom the archbishop condescends to notice among the assembly is Wamba, who holds himself somewhat apart from the rest. He at once singles him out and salutes him with a profound obeisance which Wamba, without evincing any surprise, returns in silence.

To look on the face of the dead is a duty among these savage races, who believe that the soul of the departed lingers for awhile about its tenement of clay. But there is another and more powerful incentive which has assembled these chiefs from the far-off provinces of the kingdom.

Round the bed of the dead king they stand to choose his successor. Absolute silence reigns. Each man is jealous of his neighbour, and convinced that his own claims will prevail. Especially is this the case with Hilderic, who has a secret compact with the Jews who fled from oppression in the south of Spain to his government of Narbonne, and he knows that they will gladly furnish him with funds to harass the Christian nobles.

At last the voice of the archbishop is raised to break the strange hush around.

“Chiefs and nobles of the Gothic nation,” he says, in a tone of authority, while all eyes are fixed on him, “the king who lies here reigned in peace according to the Gospel. I am not come to make his funeral oration. All present know his good deeds and the moderation of his rule. For twenty-three years the sword of the Goth has rested in the scabbard. But this calm cannot continue. An able man must succeed him. One”—and as he spoke the silken cowl fell altogether back, displaying the powerful lines of his tonsured head, the broad intellectual brow, and the erectness of command—“one, I say, alone is worthy, and that is Wamba. He has no enemies.”

As a long-drawn breath of eager expectation looses itself with a distinct note of relief, so did a low sound pass through the dead chamber as Julianus spoke. On every countenance came an expression of astonishment, but it was astonishment unmixed with opposition or anger. A relief indeed to pent-up feelings, which finally found vent in a burst of loud applause, each man falling back instinctively to where Wamba had placed himself at the foot of the bed. Then, as with one voice, came the response:

“Yes, Wamba! He shall be our king!”

“But,” cried Wamba, his wrinkled face working with emotion, as he advanced quickly to where Julianus stood, “my consent is needful to this proposal. Now I refuse it. I am not of an age to rule over my valorous countrymen. I am old, I am unworthy. The strength of my arm is gone. I am unfit to lead the dauntless Goths to battle.”

“Then rule over them at home,” is the short rejoinder of the archbishop. “In a nation of soldiers a peaceful sovereign is best. You are great in wisdom, O Wamba! Recesvinto was no warrior, and we are here to mourn his loss.”

“Yes,” replies Hilderic, secretly rejoiced at the choice of Julianus, as from the age of Wamba he will have time and occasion to complete his treacherous plans before the new king’s probable death, for to Hilderic Wamba appears an aged visionary, easy to be put aside when opportunity is ripe, a convenient stop-gap for a time—“yes, Wamba, you are the only man we will accept without bloodshed.”

“Impossible!” cries Wamba, his cheeks reddening with anger. “I will accept nothing which I cannot righteously fulfil. I am unfit to reign.”

“No, no!” exclaims Ervig, casting his arms about his patron’s neck and affectionately saluting him. “Goodness and wisdom are the best, and those are yours, dear master.”

“We will have you! Speak! Consent!” come as one word from the circle of nobles. “You dare not refuse the will of the chiefs,” cry all, gathering round him, each more or less approving the choice on the same grounds as did Hilderic, or as considering Wamba an easy ruler, under whom every man would be his own master. Already the brows of some begin to darken at his continued refusal.

“Choose some younger man,” he persists, struggling from the hands which are now laid on him; “one better fitted for the arduous duties of your king. Look at me,” and he raises his grey locks and bares his furrowed forehead, “I am long past my prime.” As he speaks he is retreating as best he can towards the door, when the fiery Hilderic, seizing him with one hand, with the other brandishes a naked spear.

“Look you, Wamba,” says he, a dangerous fire kindling his eye, “you shall never leave this chamber, save as a dead man, or as our king.”

“Dead, or as our king,” came as a war-cry from all the fierce Goths, closing round him with such unseeming shouts and din, that it seemed as if their rude clamour must disturb the last sleep of the dead whose presence all had forgotten.

“You accept the crown in the sight of God?” demands the archbishop in a solemn voice, stretching forth his hands towards Wamba, who, perceiving that further opposition is useless, bows his head. “Then at this altar let us offer up our thanksgivings. The Church is with you, Wamba.” And Julianus turns to the oaken table on which stands the Host, and falls upon his knees, with the priests and acolytes around, followed by all those fierce spirits quelled for an instant by the might of his power.

“And,” says Wamba, as last of all that assembly he slowly bends his knee in the place of honour reserved for him next to the archbishop, “countrymen! let your prayers be for me also, that I may not be deemed unworthy!”

Again the incense rises in shadowy clouds, filling the chamber with strange outlines. Again the voices of the priests rise and fall, and human interests are lulled for awhile in the presence of the dead king. Again the chiefs remember for a brief moment his just and tranquil reign, and many prayers are recited with apparent fervour for the repose of his soul.

Within nineteen days after the election of his successor, Recesvinto was buried and Wamba crowned by Julianus in the Cathedral of Toledo. All Spain was jubilant, for he was a blameless man; indeed, a fond remembrance yet clings to his name at Toledo. The words Tiempo del Rey Wamba still point to some lingering impression of national prosperity and of a time of plenty, answering to the days of the “Saxon kings” in England. And Wamba was indeed no imbecile, or weak-handed in war, as Hilderic and his friend the Greek Paul pretended, when, helped by the Jews, they broke into rebellion. He was a warrior indeed, who, though old, could lead the Goths to victory and punish his enemies by slaughter and torture as was the habit of his nation. After which the “Farmer King,” as he was affectionately called, to indicate his simple tastes and care for the neglected serfs, returned to Toledo to enjoy his triumph, descending the hill to the cathedral, through the narrow streets, much as we see them now, followed by a long procession of captive Basques with shaven heads, a signal mark of humiliation to the abundant-haired Goths (the rebel Paul, in impious mockery, decorated with a leather crown, stuck on his head with melted pitch, and a sceptre of reeds in his hand), to be received by the Archbishop Julianus under the sculptures of the Gate, at the head of his clergy.

But the decline of native valour had gone too far for any single man to stem the downward tide. The free constitution of the Nomad tribes had given place to a military despotism, alternating with, and controlled by, a bigoted priesthood. The tremendous superiority of Julianus delayed for a time this downward course, but could not arrest it. Even his iron will could not stop the decadence of a nation. Each chief—or duke (dux)—was king in his own district, and free to lead a life of idleness and crime. If the Goths still fought well, it was only against each other, or when pressed by necessity to arrest the inroads of the Franks, a much more masculine nation than themselves.

In the south, the Moors were eagerly watching for some chance of crushing out the Northmen. At home, the Jews, persecuted, ill-treated, and numerous, were ready to join with every rebel, and to welcome any invader, while, in spite of the efforts of the king, the freedmen, sunk in hopeless slavery, tilled the land for their masters and lived like the beasts of the field. All who possessed more than themselves or who amassed riches were exposed to the envious rapacity of the nobles.

Thus the nation was threatened with destruction on all sides, yet so short-sighted and effete had the Goths become, that, deluded with the semblance of a false peace, they lived as they listed, unconscious of the ruin gathering around.

For a time all went well with Wamba. The vigour of his government had been a surprise to those who had elected him, to none more than the archbishop himself, who little expected to find a ruler of such determination in the modest-minded chief. No woman swayed his councils, neither wife, daughter, nor leman. All his love was centred in Ervig, whom he constantly advanced step by step to fresh honours and commands. So much was Wamba beloved by the people and nation, that the erudite but ambitious Julianus, still hoping to govern him with courtly flattery, wrote his panegyric in the Storia Wamba, extolling him as the pattern of a Christian hero; and Ervig, who had developed into a subtle statesman, greatly favoured by the archbishop, helped him to turn the elegant sentences.

When Julianus had declared on Wamba’s election that “the Church was with him,” it was in the belief that he was dealing with a weak old man whom he could blindly lead. He never dreamed that he would dare to touch the privileges of his order. Perhaps Wamba thought so himself before power imposed duties on his conscience. But when he insisted on keeping the clergy in check, and exercised his prerogative in enacting new laws of reform, Julianus secretly resolved on his destruction. Imbued with the spirit of the Roman pontiffs he would permit no meddling of the secular arm with his authority. Even the king, according to Julianus, must submit to the decrees of the great councils which he, as archbishop, was so fond of calling together, and which were destined to make his name famous throughout the world.

To effect the downfall of Wamba a tool was needed, and that tool was Ervig. Striking with a master hand on the baser chords of his nature, vanity and ambition, the relentless archbishop crushed out of him every spark of gratitude and love and moulded him to his hand as the potter moulds the clay.

“It is for the salvation of the Church of God,” whispered Julianus, “a holy deed. It is Wamba who is the Judas, not you, my son,” in answer to Ervig’s feeble arguments. “Wamba has basely betrayed his master, and must be cast out as a brand to the burning! You are of royal blood, Wamba is but a hireling. Instead of standing as second to the throne, it is your right to mount it, and prove to this backslider that the same hand which crowned him can cast him down.”

“But you will spare his life,” pleaded Ervig, pricked sorely in his conscience in spite of the casuistry of the archbishop.

“That will be in the hands of the Lord,” answered the arrogant priest. “I am but the instrument of the Most High.”

Wamba did not live in the fortress over the city of Toledo, the present Alcazar, but in a palace near the church now called Juan de los Reyes, situated on a plateau overlooking the Tagus, and lower down in the town among the citizens. Instinctively he was conscious of a change in Ervig. He shunned him, he was short and reticent in his replies, assumed a haughty indifference to his commands, and so openly opposed the new clerical laws that Wamba severely reproved him. After which a strange thing happened. Wamba fell into a deep sleep, sitting in the hall of his palace, lulled by the ripple of the river far below; a stupor, rather than a sleep, for he could not be aroused.

“The hand of God is upon him,” cried the false Ervig, whom the attendants had summoned. “Call the archbishop. He must not die unshriven.”

When consciousness returned, Wamba found himself habited as a monk, with a dark cowl over his eyes, lying on a wooden trestle, more like a bier than a resting-place for a living man. The walls around were bare and discoloured with mildew, a dim uncertain light fell on his face from a narrow window too high in the wall to reveal anything without. A terrible oppression overwhelmed him; he could scarcely open his eyes, and every limb seemed paralysed.

Whether the sleeping potion administered by Ervig had not been potent enough to end life, or whether the strength of his constitution had resisted its full action, no man will ever know. Gradually, as his senses returned, he understood the treason of which he was the victim. He was in a monk’s dress, and, according to the Gothic law, whoever once assumes the ecclesiastical habit is dead to actual life. As far as his kingly office was concerned they might as well have sealed him in a tomb, and read the prayers for the dead over him!

“And Ervig had done this! Ervig!” For he dimly remembered a drink which Ervig had at his request offered him before he fell asleep. In that moment more than the bitterness of death passed over him. Death brings forgetfulness. Wamba’s returning senses came with an agonised recalling of all his former life, out of which rose the image of that one false friend whom he had so loved and trusted. Moment by moment all became clear; Ervig had, during his swoon, clothed him as a monk. He was dethroned!

Suddenly the door of the cell opens, and the stately figure of the archbishop appears. With straight swift strides he advances to where Wamba lies; his priestly robe drooping around him with a heavy patrician grace, his ebon hair falling over his ample brow, a veil to the glittering eyes beneath, which burn with an evil fire. Like a phantom he stands over the prostrate king—his form in shadow, sombrely defined against the window, and in an instant all the cell seems to palpitate with life; the walls animate with the expectant eyes of monks placed there to watch the swoon of the king—a dark and sinister background revealed by the scanty light, in which Julianus dominates like some wicked giant about to pounce upon his prey.

Ervig was beside him, standing with averted looks that he might not meet the gaze of Wamba, who still lay with half closed eyes, passively watching the movements of his enemies.

Was it to be life or death? He cared not! A chill as of death curdled his blood. The cell whirled and a mighty darkness reeled down upon him. Wounded to the quick, he would not even condescend to expostulate. Before such base treachery his righteous soul revolted. They had him in their power, let them wreak their will. His life was done, his reign ended. Against the law under which he lay there was no appeal. Shut up in a subterranean prison how could he communicate with any who might dare to restore him to his throne? It was subtly planned, and by a master mind!

Wamba is, however, the first to break silence. He heaves a deep sigh and opens his eyes, passing his hands slowly over his face, ghastly under the effects of the poison. “You have been a false friend to me,” he says, addressing himself, not to the archbishop, but to the muffled figure which stands behind him. “You have returned evil for good. In what have I injured you?” His voice is low, but he speaks with the calmness of one who has already passed the gates of death.

“Accuse not Ervig,” answers the archbishop, in a tone of lofty command, placing himself before Wamba, so as to fill with his ample draperies the narrow space of light. “It is the Holy Church in my person you have offended. As an unfaithful son you are cast out. Ervig has but done his duty, for you, Wamba, are a recreant unfit to reign.”

“And does the duty of Ervig lead him to succeed me?” asks Wamba, raising himself painfully from the pallet and leaning forward, so that the outlines of his sunken features appear under the cowl.

“It does,” answers Julianus, still shielding Ervig from the glance of contempt which shoots from the eyes of Wamba.

“It is well,” is the answer. “You made me king, Julianus, against my will. Now, against my will, you unmake me. Poor and wretched instrument,” he adds, raising his hand towards Ervig, who was crouching in the shadow near the wall, “beware how you cross Julianus. Take example by me, and let no love for the Gothic tempt you to do justice to the people.”

“Dare not to question the judgment of God,” exclaims the archbishop, an expression of lofty scorn lighting up the evil brilliancy of his deeply sunken eyes. “To Ervig you owe your life. I would have flung you into the fires of purgatory to purify your sinful soul, but his counsels were of mercy.”

“I thank him not,” replies Wamba. “I am old, and my time in this world is short. I would far rather have sunk into eternal sleep, than lead the life to which you have condemned me.”

So deeply moved was Ervig, despite the dignity which awaited him, that he did not reply. He was a weak, unworthy nature, bad, but not wholly depraved. He had been worked upon and warped by the sophistries of the unscrupulous archbishop, which now, in the presence of his benefactor, seemed to lose all their weight. Even his ambition to reign wavered for the moment before his remorse, as one who having braced himself to commit a crime, yet lacks the courage to carry out the measure of his iniquity.

So evident was this, that, full of the fear of what his affection for Wamba might prompt him to do, Julianus brought the interview to an abrupt end. Without another word he passed out of the cell followed by Ervig, and the army of tonsured monks, who had borne Wamba in, now returned to watch his gradual return to active life.

The “Farmer King” had, however, many friends. The Goths loved him, and the Jews (a powerful contingent, richer than all the rest) respected him. So humble was he in peace, so brilliant in war, and under that calm exterior gifted with such energy that he had inspired the State with a new life, as the last great spirit of the old Dacian stock, that Julianus became seriously alarmed, and hastened to call a Council of Bishops to ratify the accession of Ervig to the throne.

The sentence which was passed upon Wamba was thus worded: “As there are some who, being clothed in the garments of penitence when in peril of death, after having recovered, claim that the vow is not binding—let all such remember that they are baptised without will or knowledge, and yet no man can remove baptism without damnation; as it is with baptism, so with monastic vows, and we [the Council] declare that all who violate this law are worthy of the severest punishment, and are incapable of holding any office or civil dignity during their natural lives.”

By this it would seem that, however the nation clung to the memory of the good old king, yet these once brave and manly warriors had sunk into an incredibly superstitious and priest-ridden nation, fit only to be crushed in the hands of the first bold invader, and that all this internal strife was but as an invitation to the Moors across the Straits, and the Basques in the mountains of the north, to take advantage of their weakness.

Of Ervig it is said that, after a few years passed in vassalage to Julianus, remorse overcame him, and he took to his bed and died.

Under Witica the Court of Toledo was stained with blood. He was an ignorant, arrogant tyrant, who only understood present advantage to himself. To prevent possible rebellion—and hostile parties were many and ran high, as in preceding reigns—he dismantled the city walls and fortresses, and in his mad eagerness for the security of the throne murdered every kinsman whose life lay within his hand. Particularly was his insane jealousy directed against his cousin Favila, Dux of Cantabria, who was executed, and Witica had prepared the same fate for his son Pelayo, but he escaped to become later on the saviour of his country in driving out the Moors from the north of Spain.

Then his suspicions spent themselves on another kinsman, the Gothic chief Theodofredo. His eyes were put out, and he was imprisoned in the damp vault under the castle of Cordoba.

Half Mussulman, and wholly brutal, Witica ingeniously united the vices of both nations—the Iberians and the Goths—and indulged in such a numerous harem as put even the Moors to shame. In vain did the Church thunder against this very peccant son. Julianus was long dead. He laughed at the threats of the Pope, and, like his Gothic ancestor, Alaric, threatened to lay siege to Rome.

“Why,” cried he, when presiding in the Chapter at Toledo, clothed in his royal robes, the crown and sceptre beside him, in the midst of the trembling canons, who knew it was at their life’s peril to venture to contradict him—“why shall not our Gothic damsels adorn themselves with the jewels of the Vatican, and our coffers be replenished with the treasury of St. Peter’s?”

Incensed at the opposition of the Archbishop Sindaredo, who dared to expostulate with him, he appointed his own brother Opas, at heart as profligate as himself, Archbishop of Seville, to take his seat along with Sindaredo in the episcopal chair of Toledo. (Opas was the most unscrupulous prelate that ever wore the mitre. Even Julianus was his inferior in secular power, for Opas was a prince, born of the old Gothic stock.)

“Since the Church of Toledo will not yield to me, her lawful spouse,” said Witica, with savage sarcasm, “she shall, like a harlot, have two husbands—Sindaredo and Opas. No foreign potentate with a triple crown shall preach to me.”

Witica, bad as he was, is yet entitled to be considered as the first reformer. He promulgated a law freeing the clergy from the vow of celibacy. No threats or anathemas of any mitred Julianus stopped him. No obedience to monkish precepts governed his mind. He revelled in lawless licentiousness, and in outraging the pietism of the time. Of Witica it was said that “he taught all Spain to sin.” Naturally the monkish chronicles have unmercifully vilified him. Yet there is much of the humoristic coarseness of the Middle Ages in his character; a grotesque setting at naught of all law and convenance, which the fashion of politer times—not a whit less vile—softened and refined into a quasi-elegance perhaps more repulsive.

While the churches are closed under an interdict, the altars bare, the people disarmed, the castles and fortresses dismantled lest they might harbour enemies, and disorder and sensuality reign unchecked throughout the land, a youthful avenger is growing up in the person of Roderich, son of Theodofredo, now dead, some say murdered, in the gloomy dungeons of Cordoba.

Of royal birth, reared and educated among the cultivated Romans, Roderich is not only a brilliant knight, but a master of all the civilisation of the age, prompt at all martial exercise, of graceful and polished manners, and eager to avenge the wrongs of his father and of the Goths. Like a meteor, this young hero flashes upon Spain, defeats Witica “the Wicked,” in a pitched battle, and imprisons him in the same castle of Cordoba, where his father has lately died. Not a dissentient voice is heard on the battle-field when Roderich, raised on a shield by the soldiers, as was the custom of his ancestors, and standing erect to face the four quarters of the world, is proclaimed King of the Western Goths, in place of the sons of Witica.

And now we come to the history of the beautiful Moor, Egilona, daughter of the King of Algiers, who was at this time shipwrecked on the coast of Spain at Denia. As the royal vessel grounded on the sand (says the chronicle), the rabble of Denia—and what a rabble, in all ages, is that of Spain, how greedy, how rapacious—rushed into the surf, to capture and make spoil. But the grandeur of the illustrious company assembled on the deck somewhat awed them as they paused with greedy eyes,--men and women, sumptuously attired, facing them with all the haughtiness of Oriental dignity. In the stern, closely pressed within a circle of her Moslem guards, stood a lovely princess, lightly veiled, her turban ablaze with jewels, and as the vessel heaved in upon the swell, and the mob found themselves close upon the strangers, scimitars flashed and jewelled daggers gleamed. Then some of the older Moors, understanding the helplessness of their position, leaped on shore, and falling on their knees before the alcaide, who stood by, unable to understand the meaning of what he saw, implored his mercy towards a royal princess.

“She whom you behold,” said one sumptuously robed African, who seemed to lead the expedition, his brow covered by a green turban, on which glittered an aigrette of inestimable worth, “is the only daughter of the King of Algiers, whom we are conducting to her affianced husband, the King of Tunis. Foul winds, as you see, have driven us on your coast. We were compelled to make for land, or imperil the life of our inimitable mistress. Allah has preserved her. Do you, Señor Alcaide, not prove more cruel than the waves.”

The alcaide, a worthy man, much overcome by the magnificence of these sea-borne guests, bowed his head in acquiescence, and called on his alguazils to keep off the crowd. “I will myself conduct your princess to the castle,” he replied to the noble Moor who had addressed him. “Let her freely tread the Spanish soil. It shall be to her as safe as the African land of her fathers.”

“The castle!” cried the same dazzling Moor who had already spoken, stopping the alcaide short. “The castle! You would then treat this regal bride as a captive? By the tomb of the Prophet, Señor Alcaide, you do ill! Know that her ransom will be to you, and to your race for ever, riches incalculable, such as the genii in dreams bear to the faithful—if you deal well with her and let her go.”

Another and another of the circle of superbly robed strangers also spoke.

“All we have is yours, Sir Alcaide.”

The fair captive herself held out her hands in supplication towards the excellent magistrate, who stood perplexed, as divided between duty and inclination.

“Will you,” she asked, in a soft voice, “imprison one whom the sea has set free?”

In vain! The honesty of this Spanish official is a record to all time. He was a Goth of the old school, and cared neither for jewels nor gold. Much as it moved him to withstand the entreaties of so beautiful a creature, his sense of duty conquered.

“Sir Moslem,” he answered, afraid at first to address himself directly to the lady with a churlish refusal, but singling out the illustrious Moor, whose words and presence showed him to be of exalted rank, “and you, fair and virtuous lady, whom the storm has drifted on our shores, greatly does it grieve me to say you nay, but my loyalty to my sovereign, Don Roderich, leaves me no choice. This princess,”—pointing to the lady, who had sunk back fainting in the arms of her attendants, as soon as she was convinced of her failure to move the alcaide—“is a royal captive, whom chance has landed within the Gothic realm. Don Roderich can alone decide her fate. Within the castle I command let her seek shelter and repose, more I cannot promise.”

To the court at Toledo the beautiful African journeyed, shedding many tears. To the Eastern mind she was a slave, awaiting the will of her new master. Yet it was refreshing to her feelings to be received in every town and castle with royal honours, to be still surrounded by her Moorish court, and to travel mounted on a snow-white palfrey, the wonder and astonishment of all who beheld her. Slave though she was, her head was carried high as one accustomed to receive homage. Her clear, dark eyes, sparkling and mild, shone out under the strongly marked eyebrows of the East, profuse braids of black hair hung loosely about her neck, tinkling with golden coins; a veil of silver tissue was twined about her head, to be drawn over the face and bosom at pleasure, under a turban, to which a diadem was attached, decked with bright feathers; a long tunic, woven in the looms of her country, heavy with pearls, and trousers of a transparent fabric descended to her feet, incased in delicate slippers, a loose mantle of changing silk covering all. Nor was her horse unadorned; an embroidered saddle-cloth swept the ground, the bridle and stirrup were inlaid with gems, and even the shoes were wrought in gold.

At length, high over the wide plains which encircle Toledo, the bulk of a lofty castle rises to her eyes; the rock on which it stands so hard and defined in outline, it seems as if nature had planted it there as a pedestal to receive the burden, and to guide the majestic current of the Tagus through solemn defiles round the walls.

There, as now, the Alcazar stands, the servile city grouping at its base in long, flat lines, granite rocks breaking out between, and giant buttresses bordering the deep flood—a sadly tinted scene, terrible and weird, just touched with burning flecks when the sun sets.

In a deep valley beside the Tagus Egilona rested under a silken pavilion prepared for her, to await the coming of the king. Gloomy were her thoughts on the banks of that rock-bound river, black with granite boulders and rash and hasty in its course. What a country was this, after the exotic landscapes of Algiers, the palmy groves and plantains, the orange and lemon orchards, the ruddy pomegranates and olive grounds, and the deep valleys of the hills! What pale, dismal tints! What stern, sunless skies! Terror struck to Egilona’s heart as she asked herself what kind of man this Northern king would be who dwelt in that frowning castle. Would those walls enclose her in a life-long prison? or would the dark flood beside her be her grave? Poor Egilona! a captive and a slave! How could she guess the brilliant future before her, when the aspect of nature itself heightened her fears?

Meanwhile, descending by the winding path which proudly zigzags down the hill, a glittering cavalcade reaches the archway of the Golden Gate (a monument formed in all ages for triumphant conquerors to pass through) to defile upon the bridge upheld by many piers. Gothic chiefs, magnificent in glittering armour, lances, heavy embossed casques, and gold-inlaid corselets, riding deeply-flanked horses, champing bits of gold—the great princes of the Northern court, the magnificent successors of those iron-hearted warriors who well-nigh conquered the world; mules with embroidered saddle-cloths, and gay litters and arabas furnished with striped curtains for such attendant demoiselles as cannot ride; gorgeous chariots, too, horsed with battle-steeds and surrounded by archers and spearmen, flags and banners waving in the sun, pages and attendants bright as exotic birds; and last of all, more dazzling than the rest, Roderich himself, clad in crimson robes, active, vigorous, and graceful, his face aglow with an excitement which heightened the wondrous beauty of his features.

For such a reputation of comeliness to have come down to us from the eighth century argues Roderich a royal Apollo indeed; but whether he favoured the raven, or if his curling locks recalled the glow of the dawn, can only be conjectured.

As he draws rein and dismounts before the silken draperies of the pavilion, within which the peerless Egilona rests, his soul is moved with tender expectation. He enters; their eyes meet, and he is struck dumb! That mischievous boy, Cupid, has pierced him with his dart, and then and there he swears a silent oath that Egilona shall be his queen.

“Come to me,” he says, in a soft voice, as he bends on her his glowing eyes. “Come without fear. Let no sorrow cloud that royal brow. Beside me, your path shall ever be made smooth, and a shelter found, where you shall rest alone. As in the court of your father, so shall you be in mine. All I crave is leave to kiss your feet, most incomparable stranger. This favour you will not refuse.”

At which Egilona, blushing to the painted henna circles which increased the splendour of her eyes under his ardent gaze, bows her dark head.

Then taking her hand, Roderich, kissing the delicate finger-tips tenderly, forbade her to kneel before him as she desired. With his own hands he mounted her on a palfrey, and accompanied her up the ascent to the castle, where he installed her in the richest chambers facing the sun. And, ever more and more enslaved, the handsome young Goth, amorous by temperament and habit, became

dearer and dearer to her, and fainter and fainter grew the remembrance of her African home, and that Tunisian bridegroom she had never seen; until, at last, her dainty lips opened with a “Yes,” to his entreaties, and Egilona consented to become a Christian and his queen.

Wonderful are the ways of love! All this took place in a brief space. Not only Egilona, but many of her Moorish damsels, wooed by Gothic knights, eloquent with the words of passion, found their arguments so convincing, that they also not only shared in her conversion, but followed her example in marriage.

Happy Egilona! The shops in the Yacatin, the Jews’ quarter, and the bales of the African merchants travelling from city to city, were ransacked for her use. The most precious merchandise, silks, gems, perfumes, and sweetmeats—all that Europe and the East possessed richest and rarest to please a lady’s eye—were showered upon her, when Don Roderich led her by the broad marble stairs of the Alcazar into the pillared patio, followed by her African retinue, down the steep streets to the Cathedral—very different to what we see it now, though standing on the same spot, and in all ages a fair and stately edifice, said to have been founded by the Virgin herself. Children, according to ancient custom, ran before to throw flowers in her path; and bowls filled with uncut jewels and gold coins were presented to her by noble youths in silken robes. The wedding chorus was sung as she passed by, a poet reciting “How the god of love had wounded the heart of the king,” the Archbishop Opas himself meeting them at the great Puerta, and blessing them as they knelt.

Jousts, tournaments and banquets, followed; the great chiefs appearing resplendent in burnished armour, embossed and enamelled in the ancient style; nothing was too costly for these delicate descendants of the rudely armed Alaric; carpet knights, all plumes and banners and worked scarfs, glittering in and out of silken tents; and revelry and dances presided over by the king and queen.

For twenty days princes and knights, assembled from all parts of Spain, kept holiday at Toledo. Every tongue declared the dark-skinned Egilona peerless among queens, and Don Roderich the comeliest of the Gothic race. Egilona was adored by her Christian consort. He turned no more longing eyes upon the venal fair who hitherto had contended for his favour, and the vessel of state glided over a crystal sea to the soft winds of prosperity under a cloudless sky.

The old lays and ballads make Roderich, in the magnificence of his youth, a rival of the Cid Campeador himself. Even his mortal enemies, the Moors, glorify him in their songs sung to the cither under the orange groves of Granada.

But already the “cloud no bigger than a man’s hand” is rising on the horizon, by-and-by to obscure and darken the sun of his success.

A crown acquired by violence sits uneasily on the usurper’s head. Like Witica, Don Roderich was tormented with suspicions of conspiracies and treachery among his powerful nobles. So little did the fate of his ill-starred predecessor teach him wisdom, that he permitted the same fears to haunt him, of all who were allied to him by blood. Witica’s two sons were banished from Spain, and, to avoid the chance of rebellion, such defences in walls and castles as yet remained were thrown down, and the carefully constructed fortifications of the Romans levelled to the earth. Nor could a rude and warlike race be expected to maintain their early valour in the midst of such luxury and licentiousness as prevailed. For two hundred years the Gothic kings had held Spain by the prowess of their arms, and the simple habits of their forefathers—Ataulfo, Sigeric, Theodoric, Alaric, Amalaric, and his successors up to the frugal-minded Wamba, the “Farmer King.”

Now, under Witica and Roderich, effeminacy and sloth led on to cowardice. The Gothic soldiers who had been galvanised into a temporary show of valour by the recent strife between Witica and Roderich, soon sank back into the inactivity of a wanton court, feasting, dancing, and wassailing in a style more becoming the satraps of an Eastern potentate than the chiefs of a free and generous people. Who could have recognised in these voluptuous youths, who hung about the person of Don Roderich, the descendants of those stern and frugal Teutonic heroes of the North, marching down like thunder-gods to conquer the nations?

Pomp there was, it is true, and splendour, and civilisation, and an elegance of manners and of thought unknown before; but the heart of the Gothic nation was cankered at the core, and the warlike Moors, ever on the lookout to snatch from their grasp the fertile Peninsula showing out so fair across the Straits, noted it with joy.

CHAPTER II
Don Roderich—Gathering of the Chiefs—Trial of Witica

OW strange to think of Cordoba before the Moors, who so imbued it with the spirit of Moslem life! Those famous Caliphs of the rival houses of Mirvan and Ummaija, and the great Abdurraman, whose wealth and luxury read like a dream; Eastern luxury in banquets under painted domes; odalisques and white-robed eunuchs gliding beneath fretted arches, vaults of alabaster and porphyry; harems with walls shedding showers of jasmine and rose-leaves, the soft breathings of guzla and cither, dark heads crowned with orient pearls, and tissue-robed Sultanas reclining on golden thrones.

“Kartuba the important,” the gem of the Carthaginians,—ancient when the Gentiles reigned in the time of Moses; possessed in turn by Greeks and Romans, the birthplace of Seneca, Lucan, Averroës, and El Gran Capitan Gonsalvo Aguilar de Cordoba; for ages the capital of Southern Spain,—is to be considered exclusively, before the advent of the Moors, as a Roman settlement, the grandly regular aspect of these masters of the world impressed upon its buildings. Siding with Pompey in the time of the Republic, it was destroyed by the vengeance of Cæsar. Rebuilt by Marcellus and repeopled by penniless patricians from Rome, it was for a time called “Patricia”; under all names a sober and dignified capital gathered round its ancient castle on the banks of the Guadalquivir.

At all times Cordoba is beautiful; the verdant slopes of the Sierra Morena, rising precipitously from the very gates, look down serenely on the strife of rival peoples; lovely retreats, dotted with white quintas, farms, mills, vineyards, and olive-grounds; the rugged summits rising westwards to the limits of Lusitania; the lazy Guadalquivir flowing at their base, through grassy plains dark with orange and myrtle.

Now what a desolation! A solitary shepherd pipes to his flock, as he passes at the Ave Maria, on the lonely road; a file of mules carrying bricks or corn succeed him; a ragged goatherd watches his kids grazing beside the river, and droves of swine burrow in the mould once trodden by the steps of heroes! Two boldly crenelated towers and a portion of the outer walls, rising from an ancient garden of exceeding sweetness, are all that remains of the palace and fortress of the Gothic kings. Thickets of roses and lilacs engulf you as you enter, broad palm leaves shroud decay, and quivering cane-brakes whisper softly of the past. A little to the left rises a lower tower, grey against the sky, another and another, the stones scarcely held together by entwining ropes of ivy—all that remains of the royal castle.

In the prison beneath, on a level with the Guadalquivir, the noble Theodofredo, father of Roderich, languishes, deprived of sight by red-hot irons held before the eyes, a favourite mode of torture, borrowed, like all that is degraded, from the Byzantines. Now Witica, who commanded this savage act, has taken his place in the same prison, and is to be judged by Theodofredo’s son. Wiser would it be, and more merciful, if Roderich should forego this vengeance. But with power have come the savage instincts of his race. The indulgence of his life has already begun to tell on his once generous nature. Little by little, he has fallen from the high position of regenerator of Spain, and, led on by evil counsel and a natural weakness inherent in his nature, has adopted the same false and cruel principles of government which he was called to the throne to reform.

Within a broad vaulted hall, the high roof supported by carved rafters, the walls hung with tapestry woven with silver thread—in which the stories of Gothic victories are rudely depicted—Roderich sits on a low silver throne. It is shaped like a shield, in remembrance of the early custom of the nomad chiefs, his ancestors, who, when invested with military command, were three times, standing upon a shield, carried round the camp, on the shoulders of stalwart Goths. A rich mantle of purple brocade covers a lightly wrought cuirass inlaid with gold. The Gothic crown, which has, in the altered manners of the time, come to be not of iron but of gold, set with resplendent jewels, rests upon his head, almost concealed by luxuriant masses of hair, falling on neck and shoulders, in beard and love-locks. His buskins are red, like the Eastern emperors’, and his feet, shod with pearled sandals, rest on an inlaid footstool. The sceptre lies beside him with his sword, and over his head is a raised canopy of cloth of gold, decorated with inscriptions in Runic characters and quaint devices, come down from early times.

Around are the chiefs and nobles of the nation, gathered from all quarters of Spain—to judge him who lately was their king. All are men of war, habited in the superb but cumbrous armour of the time, before the delicate handling of the Moor turned metal into thin plates of steel, made swords as fine and piercing as needles, and armory a science.

Nearest to Roderich stands Ataulfo, next in succession to the throne, a generous-hearted youth, full of the old virtues of his nation. With much of the ruddy countenance of the king, he shows his Northern origin in the chestnut locks which escape from his burnished cap, and a certain blond fairness in spite of exposure to a southern sun.

Teodomir, a veteran general, comes next; as too rigid a disciplinarian for the degenerate times, he has somewhat fallen into neglect among the younger chiefs who have risen to power with the accession of the king. Teodomir is well past the prime of life, but retains the keen eye and stalwart limbs of youth, as at the head of an army he will show before many years are past. The historic warrior, Pelistes, is here too, already sunk into the vale of years, but, like Teodomir, strong and ready of hand and purpose, his grizzled hair shading a noble countenance. These two trusty chiefs, who present themselves in the antiquated armour of the Goths, were close friends of Roderich’s father, and were specially active in raising the hasty levies for the battle which placed his son on the throne; spite of which services, as time goes by, they find themselves somewhat disregarded by the young king, who listens to more flattering counsels and secretly laughs at the rustic virtues applauded in the days of Recaredo and Wamba.

The royal lad Pelayo is also bidden, the son of that Favila, Dux of Cantabria, put to death by Witica, when he purposed to slaughter all of his blood. Pelayo stands somewhat back as becomes his youth, for who can guess that this beardless boy, with a smiling, artless face, and full blue Northern eyes will, by his fortitude, become the founder of a new race of Gothic kings, and by his endurance and valour raise up a native dynasty in Spain?

A crowd of young courtiers, most careful of the adornment of their persons, fill up the space behind, apparelled in long embroidered mantles of many brilliant shades, held in by jewelled cinctures and buckles, elaborately worked caps upon their heads (the first idea of the later toque of the Renaissance)—fashions which have taken the place of the short tunic, leather girdle, and heavy head-piece of former times.

Beside these stands one on whom all eyes are turned. Stern and composed of aspect, as if conscious of the possession of such power that he is cautious of displaying it. His name is Julian, and it is he who chiefly seconded the rising in favour of Roderich. Yet this man, Espatorios of Spain, Lord of Consuegra and Algeciras, commander of the Goths on the African seaboard, and governor of Ceuta, half royal himself, is a dangerous subject and a doubtful friend. Why he supported Roderich is the enigma of the day; he had but to stretch out his hand to seize the crown himself, and with a much more legitimate claim. The ambition of his wife Frandina is well known, and that she chafes at her inferior position, and shuns the Court of Toledo and the royal house since Egilona is the queen; yet, strange to say, Julian as yet, has never swerved in his allegiance to Roderich. If any dark purpose of treason is brooding in his soul, as yet it appears not. To this time he is faithful, and is now present at Cordoba to judge his own near kinsman Witica for divers misdeeds, but principally for his share in the death of Roderich’s father, Theodofredo.

What that judgment will be is very plain to see. Rather to behold the wretched tyrant die than to judge him are they all assembled there, for the settled purpose in the mind of Roderich is revenge.

If Julian is an enigma, much more so is his smooth-faced brother-in-law, Opas, Archbishop of Seville, brother of the fallen king, and his aider and abettor in all his vice and cruelty. A very Judas in cunning is Opas, who, with the fall of the supremacy of the Church has, for the sake of power, accommodated himself to the new ideas, and looks out now upon the course of events with a cold eye. What are his present motives? None can guess. Yet in the fiendish treachery and bitter hatred he came later to display towards Roderich some explanation may be found in the cruel punishment he inflicted on his unfortunate brother. But the present unnatural compliance of Opas, even in these rough days, is looked on with disgust. There he stands, however, scornfully indifferent to what men think, clothed in a rich cope and jewel-adorned dalmatica, a double tiara on his head, resplendent with gems, for as he is in the presence of one king, to judge another who has worn the crown, Opas has arrayed himself in the splendid paraphernalia of his double office of Archbishop of Seville and of Toledo. Attended by two deacons he presents the very picture of the prelate of the day, ready to lead in war, or govern in peace; a cross upon his neck, his waist girded with a sword, and his feet cased in steel.

More than any one else present, however, the royal lad Pelayo, for whom so romantic a future is in store, is personally interested in the punishment of Witica, the murderer of his father; yet the composure of his face and the carelessness of his attitude, as he leans against one of the columns that uphold the raftered roof, are as if he were but one among the many. Outwardly he betrays no consciousness of his great wrong. Death and torture are familiar to the Gothic mind, and, like the rest, he appears prepared to abide by the judgment of the king.

The heavy hangings shrouding the southern entrance to the hall are drawn aside, and, with a rush of sunshine and scent of aromatic herbs and odorous flowers, Witica appears, led in by slaves, heavy chains clanking at his feet, and manacles binding his arms. Common woollen garments of a dark colour cling to his emaciated frame, and his long, unkempt hair streams down to his waist. So greatly is he changed that it is almost impossible to recognise the lineaments of the jubilant and gross-featured voluptuary in this thin, care-ravaged face. As he slowly approaches the throne upon which Roderich is seated, he stops abruptly. The rude guards on either side push him on, and weighted by the grasp of the fetters he falls helplessly forward on his knees. Thus he remains motionless. No friendly hand is outstretched to help him—the miserable king. Not a single eye in that assembly softens with a pitying glance.

A wan, craven look comes over his face as he raises his eyes beseechingly to the superb young monarch who has taken his place—so miserable an object, that whatever have been his crimes it seems impossible he can now inspire anything but pity. But Don Roderich thinks otherwise; he contemplates the wretched figure before him with a stern glance. Then, turning to the assembled chiefs and addressing himself more especially to Julian, standing as sword-bearer at the right of the throne, he speaks in a hard, resonant voice:

“In this man you behold the butcher of my father. To amuse his caprice, he put out his eyes and imprisoned him in the dungeon of this castle until, worn out by suffering, he died. My father,” he repeats, in a ringing voice, which sounds hollow in the vast bare hall, “the noble Theodofredo, whose only crime was being born near the throne.”

As he speaks there is so cruel an echo in his voice, the miserable Witica shivers and cowers still lower on the floor. Never possessed of much intelligence it would seem as if the long imprisonment and certainty of death have deadened within him the little sense he has. Dragged from the darkness of a dungeon into the full light of day, before the varied pageant of a court once his own, his brain has become confused. A dreadful horror is all he feels.

“What punishment,” continues Don Roderich, “think you, noble Goths, most revered archbishop, and brother chiefs, should be inflicted on him for this death, and all the evil he has wrought in Spain?”

“My lord,” replies Julian, bowing low, apparently unmoved by the miserable object grovelling before him, “that is a personal matter, which you alone can decide. The wrongs of a father are the wrongs of his child.”

“That is my mind also,” briefly spoke the veteran Teodomir. “And mine—and mine,” ran round the warlike circle, to whom the soft attribute of mercy was unknown—“blood calls for blood. Such is the law of our ancestors.”

Loud, too, in assent was heard the voice of Pelistes, moved to something like feeling, as the image of his friend, the noble Theodofredo, rose to his mind, condemned to a slow death within the very castle in which they stand. For the shifting of the Gothic Court to Cordoba, for the trial of Witica on the very spot where Theodofredo suffered was indeed a master-stroke on the part of Roderich to heighten to the utmost pitch of intensity not only the acuteness of his own vengeance, but the sanguinary passions of the Goths.

While each noble gives assent, the young Pelayo grows very pale. Was not Favila, his father, lord of the wide district of Cantabria, on the iron-bound coast, besides the range of the Asturian mountains, a Northern king in all but the name? Was not Favila also cruelly put to death. And had not Witica sought to lay his murderous hands on him also? Yet no man heeded. The death of Favila passed unnoticed, and Roderich, at best but a usurper, and Roderich’s wrongs are alone in every mouth! Too young to remonstrate with these elder chiefs, the heart of Pelayo chafes in silent indignation, and he swears to himself that if he lives, the day shall come when ancient Iberia shall ring with the forgotten name of his sire!

“And you, most venerable archbishop,” continues Roderich, turning to address himself to Opas, who, as if some claim of kindred had sounded at his heart, had further withdrawn himself when Witica appeared, and stood so placed as to conceal the view of the pathetic spectacle before him—“you who, by your presence here this day, give us so signal a proof of your loyalty, what seems to you just in this matter, so closely touching yourself? We would willingly carry the Church with us. Speak your mind freely, nor let our royal presence in aught prejudice the prisoner.”

“My lord,” answers Opas, in a voice which, spite of his efforts to steady it, still sounds scarcely in its natural tone, “my vote lies with my kinsman, Julian. In a matter so nearly concerning myself as a brother’s life and death, it fitteth best for me to be silent.”

Something in the familiar tones of his voice, some subtle affinity of blood betwixt brother and brother, struck the dull sense of Witica. As Opas spoke he raised his head, and, as he seemed to listen, a sickly smile played for a moment about his sunken lips, and a more human expression passed into his eyes. Listening, listening eagerly, as if expecting some help, a wistful gleam of hope striking across the depths of blank despair, his glance swept upwards with a pleading impotency terrible to behold, the vibration as it were of some subtle instrument set mysteriously in motion. Watching for what was to come, with open mouth and anxious eyes, thus he remained some time, then gradually the tension ceased, the heavy eye clouded, the jaw dropped, and the head, with its shaggy, unkempt locks, freely mixed with grey, once more sank hopelessly on his breast. All this occupied but the space of a few minutes.

Don Roderich spoke once more. “Witica,” says he, lowering his eyes to the level of the prostrate king, “you have heard the judgment of your kinsmen and those who were your former subjects. What have you to answer?”

An inarticulate sound breaks the silence. Witica makes a feeble effort to raise himself in the arms of the slaves, who have never withdrawn their hold, opens his mouth to answer, and then falls back speechless.

The Goths were ever a people cruel and savage in their laws, but so terrible a spectacle as that one, lately monarch in the land, should have fallen into such a strait might have touched even the heart of an enemy, how much more kinsmen so nearly allied to him? But it was not so, neither did any generous impulse move the king from his cruel purpose. With the kindling eye of vengeance Roderich contemplates what was left of that Witica whose kingdom he had seized, and proceeds to give sentence in clear, ringing tones, audible in every corner of the hall.

“Let the evil Witica has wrought on others be visited on himself. The eyes of my father Theodofredo were put out by his order, even so be it done with him. In the same dungeon here at Cordoba, where my father died, shall his life end. Away with the prisoner.”

The sounds of approval which follow these words, especially from the group of young courtiers, serve in some sort to drown the piercing shrieks which break from Witica when his dulled senses grasp the full meaning of the sentence. Quick as thought he is borne away, and the spot where he has lain is rapidly covered by the feet of the crowd of chiefs and princes who gather in groups in front of the throne.

With a careless laugh Roderich descends the marble steps on which the throne is placed, and placing his crown in the hands of a daintily apparelled page, moves freely about among his nobles. The friends of his father, Pelistes and Teofredo, coming from Murcia, are specially greeted. To the Archbishop Opas he again addresses himself with the studied courtesy he learned in civilised Italy. But again Pelayo is passed over in silence, an affront which calls up a flush of anger on his face, as he silently turns and leaves the hall. At last, singling out Julian, Roderich moves aside under the range of the low pillars which divide the hall.

“This judgment,” says he, speaking with caution, “relieves my mind of much care. Witica has been condemned by those of his own blood. Brother, brother-in-law, and kinsmen have joined together to make secure my position on the throne. The dam indeed is scotched, but what of the lambkins? Witica will be executed forthwith, but his sons remain. Where are they? While they live the kingdom will never be safe from traitors.”

“Have no fear, my lord,” answered Julian, who, through all this painful scene seemed to be lost in the contemplation of the expression of the king, as a student pores over the page of a precious manuscript, the sense of which may escape him by its obscurity. What manner of man is this they have chosen, he was asking himself? Was Roderich as ferocious as he seemed? Or was his conduct but the effort of a vacillating mind to play the tyrant to excess, conscious of an inherent weakness? And as he watched him, a feeling of deadly hatred came over him for the commission of the very act of cruelty he had just sanctioned. But his answer to Roderich’s question was as unmoved as though no hostile sentiments were warring within him.

“The youths are already fled to Africa, my lord, where the Spanish Governor of Tangiers

harbours them out of gratitude to their father. Let them rest, they will not trouble you.”

“You say well, count,” answers Roderich in a light tone; “vengeance for my father is a duty. For awhile we will grant them life, but later they must pay the forfeit of Witica’s crimes. But now to other matters. How fares the Lady Frandina, your virtuous consort, and the young Florinda, whom report extols as beautiful beyond measure?”

The manners of the king were frank and soldierly, and history records that he possessed to a great degree that winning demeanour which charms in the high ones of the earth. To Julian, whose powerful aid had mainly helped him to the possession of the crown, he had hitherto shown a deference that flattered while it controlled. To Don Roderich’s question Julian answered with a smile: “It is well with my consort, who is at our castle of Algeciras; she bade me greet your grace. As to my daughter, it was of her I was about to speak. Florinda is with me in Cordoba. I have brought her as a fair present and hostage to your bride, Queen Egilona, to attend on her, along with the other noble damsels of the court, and to learn those lessons of virtue and excellence in which she is paramount. Will you, my lord, be my surety with the queen?”

“That will I, gladly,” answers Don Roderich, his countenance lighting up with a gracious smile. “The confidence which you repose in me is of all else the crown and proof of your loyalty. As such I accept it. To me Florinda shall be as a daughter. I will watch over her as yourself, and see that she is trained in the same rigid principles of piety which honour her mother’s name.”

Julian, his pale, olive-skinned face flushed with the gratification these words afford, bows low. “Florinda,” he replies, “is but a timid girl brought up by her mother’s side, as yet unacquainted with the state which fittingly surrounds Queen Egilona. You will pardon her inexperience; she is quick and sensitive of nature, and keen to appreciate kindness. It is by her wish that she will attend the queen; I have but followed her own desire. Her mother indeed consented, but unwillingly, to part with her.”

“This is welcome news. It is as a shaft which tells both ways, in the sentiment of attachment in which she has been reared, and of the mind of the fair maid herself. No parents shall be tenderer or more careful than we to her. Would that I had a son to match with her in marriage.”

“And now,” says Julian, making a low obeisance, “I will crave to be permitted to withdraw; my presence is demanded in my government. The Moors have received considerable reinforcements, and advance upon Ceuta from the neighbouring hills. By way of Damascus they come, despatched by Almanzor from Bagdad, called by those unbelievers ‘The sword of God.’ Our Gothic province on the margin of the Straits needs vigorous and constant watching.”

“And it is for that reason,” is Roderich’s reply, “that I have placed the government in your hands, valiant Espatorios, first and most trusted of all my Gothic chiefs.”

“I will do my duty, my lord,” is the rejoinder. “You need, I trust, no assurance of this; but, spite of precautions, I fear greatly that a battle or a siege is imminent. The Moslems are gathered in such numbers, savage tribes of Arabs and Berbers, under the Moorish general, Mousa ben Nozier of Damascus, and his son Abd-el-asis, that it will need all our resources to baffle. Mousa swears that he will drive the Cross from the confines of Africa, and raise the Crescent on every Christian fortress we hold in Tingitana.”

“This is a confirmation of evil news,” replies Don Roderich, whose beaming countenance had darkened as Julian gave these details. “I am well advised of the concentration of the Arabs in the north of Africa. I but awaited your coming to confirm it. But had you not been present with the archbishop it would have been argued in the nation that as his relative you disapproved my sentence. Now we are hand in hand. Command all the resources of the mainland to drive the invaders back. Light sloops can be run from Algeciras to Ceuta with soldiers and arms.”

“My lord, I have enough; should a siege be threatened every mouth has to be fed. But it is to me, the leader, that the Christians look. It is I who am needed on the coast of Barbary. I have personally, too, great credit with the Moors; they are noble enemies.”

“I doubt it not,” is Roderich’s answer. “Wherever my trusty Espatorios draws the sword, victory follows.”

“My lord, it was but to excuse my hasty parting, not to ask for more supplies, that I spoke. To know that my daughter is well disposed of in a safe asylum is a balm to me greater than any boon you could bestow. My wife, Frandina, fights by my side. I have no fear for her, and our son is consigned to the care of the Archbishop Opas. Now, thanks to you, my lord, I am free-handed to face the Moors. I have but to settle more matters connected with Florinda, and to depart. The queen is at Toledo; I must accompany her thither.”

“By no means,” cries Don Roderich, “unless such is your wish. She shall go with me, accompanied by suitable attendants. I myself will present her to Egilona as our child.”

Meanwhile, the assemblage had gradually diminished. Each chief was in haste to depart, for the country was full of enemies, more especially in the south and east, where the vessels of the Moors continually landed Berbers and Arabs to plunder and carry off the inhabitants as slaves. That serious invasion was near at hand all understood, except perhaps Roderich and the idle young Goths who formed his court. As yet, it is true, Don Julian held the enemy at bay in Africa, but, his presence or his support withdrawn, the Moors would pour like a torrent on the land, and, save for a few of the old leaders who had survived the disastrous reign of Witica, and the enervating atmosphere spreading everywhere from the court into all ranks, who was there to oppose them?

CHAPTER III
Don Roderich’s Perfidy

HE court life shifts from the green Sierras of Cordoba to the old city of Toledo. Again we are in the corn-bearing plains, the outlines of the domes, pinnacles, and turrets of the Alcazar before us gay and jocund with the security of two hundred years of Gothic rule. What footsteps have echoed through those courts! What regal presences haunt them! Iberian, Roman, and Gothic; Recaredo, Wamba, Witica, and comely Roderich; to be followed by Moors, and Castilian kings; El Caballero, El Emplazado, El Valente, El Impotente; a red haired bastard of Trastamare succeeding his brother Don Pedro el Cruel, a swaggering Alfonso, Velasque’s, Philip, the staid dowager-queen Berenguela, fair Isabel the Catholic, the widow of Philip the Fourth, the mother of Charles el Soco, Johana el Loca, not to forget the Cid, first Christian alcaide and governor; a palace in old times marking the utmost limits of the known world, beyond which the East looked into the hyperborean darkness of the West; the geographical centre of all Spain—supremely regal, its foundations laid in legend, and its ramparts raised in the glamour of Oriental song; a refuge from Moorish invasion for the defenceless Goth, and the superb residence of later kings. In a hollow beneath rise the towers of the cathedral, and the outline of many ancient synagogues, for the Jews were always powerful in Toledo—El Transito and El Blanco are the principal ones, and hospitals for the chosen race. If Toledo was the Gothic capital, it was also long before known under the name of “Toledoth,” where the Jews came in great numbers after the sack of Jerusalem by Nebuchadnezzar. “The Jews fled to Tarshish,” says the Bible, and Tarshish is the scriptural name for Southern Spain.

Other churches and oratories there were, for the Goths were a pious people, also the house of Wamba over the Tagus, and the mystic tower of Hercules, rising on a rock, the entrance guarded by an inscription setting forth “that whenever a king passes the threshold, the empire of Spain shall fall”; a warning much respected by the Gothic kings—Wamba, Ervig, Eric, and Witica, who each in turn ordered fresh locks and chains to be added to make it fast. Baths there were also, and on the hills summer houses and huertas moistened by fountains and streams, the dark Tagus making, as it were, a defence and barrier about the walls.

One plaisance there was, particularly noted, on a terrace overhanging the river, where the spires and domes of many-painted pavilions uprose, with tile-paved patios, and arcades and miradores open to the sky, which Roderich had formed for Egilona, from the pattern of a Moorish retreat she loved at Algiers. Here soft fluffy plane-trees whispered to the breeze, violets blossomed in low damp trenches, and the blue-green fronds of the palms cut against the sky. A garden, indeed, most cunningly adapted to intoxicate the senses, where every tree and branch was vocal with nightingale and thrush, the soft rhythm of zambras and flutes thrilling through the boughs from invisible orchestras; a place in itself so lovely and so lonely that life passed by in an atmosphere of delight, akin to the houri-haunted paradise prepared for the brave Moslems who fall in battle. Hither came Egilona, as into the solitude of an Eastern harem, shut out from the foot of man. Even Roderich rarely entered to disturb her hours of innocent delight, surrounded by a band of fair damsels, who, like Florinda, had been committed to her care.

It was a delicious evening after a day of fiery heat. So oppressive had been the sun, that even the orange leaves flagged on their stems and the song-birds were mute. In the broad plains without, the rarefied air trembled; nothing but the sharp note of the cicala broke the silence of mid-day.

Now the air was cool in these leafy gardens, over-hanging the river, from which delicate

rippling gusts rose up to fan the atmosphere. The dazzling pavilions with open galleries lay in shadow, and only a transient ray from the setting sun lit up some detail of lace-worked panel or gilded pinnacle into a transient flame.

On a broad terrace, from which the roofs of the city are dimmed into vague outlines, a merry party of the queen’s maidens emerge from one of the galleries, amid peals of that shrill and joyous laughter heard only among the young, and running swiftly along scare the peacocks, who drop their tails and fly into the covered avenues beyond. Some of the maidens ensconce themselves in verdant kiosks, others wander into the bamboo-thickets to lie on flowery banks, or wade in the shallow streams which flow around. One delicately limbed girl, oppressed by the heat, divests herself of the light draperies she wears, and like a playful Nereid plunges into a pool, scattering water on her laughing companions.

One of these maidens, Zora, by name, who came from Barbary with Egilona, is of a darker colouring than the rest. Zora can sing to the cither and relate stories like a true Arab as she is. Now a circle of her companions gather about her, and beg her to tell them a tale.

“But you have heard all my stories so often,” pleads poor Zora, whose little feet are tingling with the desire of movement after the confinement of the long hot day.

“Never mind, you must invent a new one, Zora.” A cloud passes over her merry face. “Invent a story! Well, I will try,” and after a few minutes she seats herself on a porcelain bench under a clump of cedars, and begins.

Zora’s Story

“There were once three sisters, I don’t know where, but they were princesses. They had an ugly old father with one eye, who shut them up in a tower high in a wall. They were never to go out, and had an old slave to watch them; her name was Wenza, and there was a eunuch too, who carried a scimitar; but he does not matter, for he stayed out of doors.

“Now the tower was very beautiful, only the sisters did not like it, because they called it a prison. There was a patio with an alabaster fountain, which kept up a running murmur day and night; the walls were wrought in a coloured net-work of flowers, and arches and angles were worked beautifully to look like crystal caves. All around were the sweetest little rooms for the sisters to sleep in, not forgetting Wenza, who, they said, snored, so she was put in the farthest one. The walls were hung with golden tapestry, and the divans worked with shells and stones. So beautiful! Like a casket! There were curtains with monsters and beasts embroidered in fine silk, hung at the doors to keep out draughts, and so many singing-birds in golden cages, that there were times when they could not hear themselves speak. A little kitchen, too, lay in a corner, where Wenza cooked the food, but the sisters lived on cakes and fruit quite in a fairy-like way, which often made Wenza say she knew she would be starved, only the eunuch was kind and sometimes handed in on his scimitar a piece of meat. High up in the walls were barred casemates, but oh! so small, mere slits and the princesses often tore their robes clambering up to look out. They could see the sky—a passing cloud was a variety, but what delighted them most, and, indeed, occupied the day, when they were not playing on lutes and cithers, or teaching tricks to the birds, was a rocky valley, oh! so deep down! They could just see it. The sun never shone there, and the rocks looked always damp. A valley, and a stream with a strange echo like voices, only what it said was past their power to know; and Wenza could not help them, she only pulled them down from the windows and scolded them, and threatened she would call in the eunuch with his drawn sword. But Wenza liked to hear about it all the same, and asked often if the voices of the stream had spoken more plainly.

“The only one who minded what Wenza said was the youngest princess, Zeda. She was much more timid than her sisters, with cheeks as white as a lily. She could touch the stops of a silver lute and sing Moorish ballads. She was so gentle; she would nurse a sick bird in her warm hand for hours and hours, and feed the little starlings that settled on the window edge. All day she was in and out about the flowers, which stood in pots round the fountain and lived on the spray.

“Zoda, the second, was very vain, and looked at herself in a steel mirror twenty times a day, painting her eyes and trimming her hair, and Lindaxara, the eldest, was proud, and would sometimes beat poor gentle Zeda when she offended her.”

“And their clothes?” asked a little Gothic maiden interrupting her, “you have told us nothing of their clothes.”

“Ah! that is true,” and Zora paused and thought a little. “Well! they were all in tunics of white satin with gemmed waistbands and borders, and trousers of Broussa gauze, lined with rose colour, little caps upon their heads twinkling with coins, and necklaces of pearl. Very lovely clothes, I assure you, and they looked lovely, too, standing with the spray of the fountain behind them.

“Well,” continued Zora, growing eager herself as her tale went on, and the eyes of all her companions riveted on her, “you may fancy what it was, when Lindaxara, who was tall and slim, clamoured up one day to the latticed window and saw three Christian knights working among the stones in the valley below. She was so astonished that she gave a loud scream, which brought her sisters and Wenza, to the window. So there was no secret about it, and they all strained their necks as far as the bars would let them.

“Just to think of it! Three adorable knights in the flower of youth. Eyes full of love, and the sweetest heads of hair, not cut and trimmed like the Arabs’ under big turbans, but hanging loose in curls upon their shoulders. Captives, alas! loaded with chains! The tears came into the sisters’ eyes as they gazed. ‘The one in green,’ cried Lindaxara, thrilling all over as she leaned out of the bars, ‘he is my knight. What grace! What beauty!’

“ ‘No, the crimson one for me,’ said Zoda, arranging her hair. ‘I love him already. He shall never be a slave.’

“Gentle little Zeda said nothing, but heaved a great sigh. ‘No one will ever care for me,’ she whispered, ‘but it is that other one I like best. He has such a heavenly smile.’

“After which, Wenza, suddenly remembering her duty, drove them all down, and shut up the window. But too late, the harm was done; Wenza protested, but she was the worst of all. The eunuch was bribed by her with so much gold, he put up his scimitar, and did all that he was bid.

“The Christian knights were told that three beautiful princesses, daughters of the one-eyed king, loved them. It made them very happy in spite of their chains. They managed to talk together by signs and to arrange their plans.

“One night, when the moon was sinking, and all was still, a whistle, heard from below, struck on impatient ears. The bars had been sawn from the window by the eunuch, who was strong, and Wenza had cut the sheets into strips and tied them all together into a long rope; then one by one they went down, at first trembling, but quite brave and glad at last, as they fell into the arms of the Christian knights, Wenza into the arms of the eunuch, who took care of her—all save poor little Zeda.

“When it came to her turn to descend, she had no courage to move, but stood at the window clasping her hands, and casting down wistful glances on her sisters. Now her fingers were on the cord, then she withdrew them; she saw her Christian knight beckoning to her; listened, listened as the stream called Zeda. Again she grasped the cord. In vain, her heart failed her.

“ ‘Too late, too late, dear sisters,’ she cried. ‘Go forth and be happy. Think sometimes of the poor little prisoner left behind.’ And so,” concluded Zora, evidently at a loss how to finish her tale, “Ansa, the one-eyed king, her father, coming to visit his daughters, found her alone, and condemned her to die of hunger in the tower.

“Poor little Zeda! But she still lives in the spirit of the fountain, when it boils and bubbles at night in the form of a Moslem princess, flower-crowned, singing to a silver lute, ‘Ay de mi Zeda!’ ”

A great clapping of hands, and many thanks to Zora for the story, greeted its conclusion. The little Gothic maiden, who was very fond of Zora, cried at the fate of the poor princess starved to death. She is sure none of them were comelier than Zora; and in this she speaks truly. An African sun had dyed her skin to a ruddier colour, given symmetry to her limbs, and a dark fire to her eyes. As a stranger Zora is by turns laughed at and petted. And as the setting sun now catches the swarthy ebony of her long hair, and blazes on the rich brown of her cheek, the difference between her and the rest suddenly strikes a lively little playmate, who is forming a pattern on the ground from the coloured petals of roses.

“I should like to know,” says she, contemplating Zora, “which is prettier, dark Zora with the flashing eyes, or pale Florinda with the chestnut curls. In my opinion Zora is worth a whole bevy of us white-faced Goths.”

“No, no, no,” echoes from all sides, while poor Zora, put to shame, blushes under tawny skin and retreats to the farthest corner of the garden.

“I will not give the palm of beauty to Zora,” cries another voice, “but to Florinda. Where is she?” A general search is made for a long time in vain, but at last she is discovered fast asleep under a palm. Slumber has lent a lustre to her cheek, and her white bosom rises and falls under the transparent tissue of her bodice.

“Look!” cry the maidens exultingly, “can you compare Zora with Florinda?” And in their eagerness the giddy group tear asunder the sheltering draperies which cling about her.

Alas! little did they know, these joyous maidens, that the fate of the Gothic kingdom turned on the balance of their childish games, and that, mere puppets in the hands of fate, they were destined to be the instruments of destruction to their country!

In the gloom that precedes the setting of the sun, amid the dusky shadows of huge-leaved plants and myrtle hedges which broke the space into squares in every direction, Don Roderich had stolen from the Alcazar to enjoy the evening freshness and to visit the queen. Hearing from afar the bursts of girlish laughter, at the contest of beauty between dark and fair, he looked out from the latticed mirador of the pavilion, and beheld the undraped form of Florinda before she could escape from the hands of her companions.

That glance is fatal. Forgetful of the sacred pledges given to her father, forgetful of his honour as a knight and his gratitude as a king, a mighty passion rises within his breast. But Florinda gives no response; his fervid glances are met with downcast eyes, and a blush rises on her cheek as she involuntarily approaches him. This does but serve to fan his lawless love; and so great is his infatuation he cannot persuade himself that she does not return it. His whole soul is as a furnace, which consumes his life. Speak to her he must, and a wicked hope whispers it will not be in vain!

Meeting her one day, a little later, by chance in the queen’s antechamber, he called her to him, and presented to her his hand.

“Sweet one,” says he, in a voice he can scarcely command, every pulse within him beating tumultuously, “a thorn has sorely pricked me, can you draw it out?”

Florinda, who unconsciously has come rather to fear him, kneels at his feet and takes his hand in hers. At the touch of her light fingers a tremor runs through his frame. Is this slight girl to resist the transports that shake his being to the core, as the fury of the tempest shakes the light leaves?

As she kneels the tresses of her auburn hair fall as a veil around her, and blush after blush flushes her cheeks. Vainly she seeks for the thorn in Don Roderich’s hand. In her surprise she lifts her eyes to his, which are bent on her with ill-controlled passion; then, starting to her feet in confusion, “My lord,” she says, retreating from where he stands leaning against a painted pillar, his jewelled cap pressed down upon his brows, “there is no thorn.”

She turns to go, filled with an apprehension she cannot explain, but he catches her hand, and presses it to his heart.

“Here, here is the thorn, Florinda; will you pluck that out?”

“My lord, my lord,” cries the alarmed girl, “I do not catch your meaning.”

“Then I will teach you,” he answers, fast losing command over himself. “Do you love me?” and he draws her to him so near that his quick-coming breath plays upon her cheek.

Ever farther and farther she strives to retreat; ever nearer and nearer Don Roderich presses her, his glowing eyes resting on her like flames.

“My lord,” she says at last, trembling from head to foot, “my father told me to revere you as himself. I was to be to you and to the queen as a daughter. To your protection I look, may it never fail.”

A terrible fear possessed her of coming danger, as she shaped her words to this appeal, and had a spark of loyalty remained in the heart of Don Roderich, her reproof would have brought him to a better mind, but an evil destiny had doomed him to work out his own ruin.

“Florinda,” he cries, seizing her by both hands so as to draw her to him by force, “innocent as you are, you must understand me. It is not the love for a father nor the submission to a king I ask of you. It is love. Ah! tremble not, fair one, there is nothing to scare you. None shall know it. Deep in our hearts it shall lie. Nor does the love of your king degrade you like that of a common man. All the power of the Gothic throne shall compass you with delights, and I will make your father Julian greater than myself.”

At these base words the rising terror of Florinda gave place to indignation. Her soft eyes kindled with a fire far different from that which Don Roderich would have desired.

“I understand, my lord,” she answers, in a firm voice; “but none of my race hold power by evil means. My father would rather die than accept such dishonour. But,” and an ill-assured smile plays about her mouth, “I believe you mean but to try me; you think me too stupid and childish to serve the queen. I pray your pardon for taking a jest in such foolish earnest.”

The blanched face of Florinda ill-corresponded with the words which her quivering lips could scarcely articulate.

“May I die,” cries Don Roderich, “if I speak aught but truth. My heart, my kingdom, are at your command. Be mine, fair angel, and the Goths shall know no rule but yours.”

But now, the courage of Florinda, timid and girlish as she was, rises up within her. “My lord, I am in your power,” are her words. “You may kill me, but there you stop. My will you can never force.” Then, casting up her arms with a gesture of despair, she flees, vanishing among the long lines of pillars in the hall; and such was the power of her anger that the king dares not follow her. And here we must leave her with a wonder whether the assiduous worship paid her by Roderich was always repulsed with a like vigour, or if the opprobrious name of La Cava with which she came to be branded in the legends of the time was not undeserved.

That the king was so depraved by the indulgence of his life as not to be haunted by the shame of what he had done is difficult to believe. That he counted, however, on the secrecy of Florinda would seem certain from the indifference he displayed to the consequences of his action as affecting his relations with Julian, at that very time leading his army against the Moorish hosts, commanded by the veteran general, Mousa, in the neighbourhood of Ceuta.

“Those whom the gods forsake, they blind,” says the Pagan proverb. It is certainly impossible to explain the inactivity of the once valiant Roderich by any rational course of reasoning. Not only had the rumour of approaching battle come from the African shores, but swift messengers had brought to Toledo the news that the rock of Calpe (Gibraltar) in Spain bristled with scimitars, led by the ferocious old Berber, Tháryk, with his single eye.

“Tell Roderich the Goth,” ran the message, “that Tháryk has crossed the Straits to conquer his kingdom, and that he will not return until he has made the Goth lick the dust before him.”

Whatever blindness had fallen on Roderich, the consciousness of her disgrace soon forced itself on the mind of Florinda. Guilty or not, despair at last took possession of her. For a time she was silent, but unable to endure her shame, and horrified at her treason towards the queen, who ever tenderly cherished her, in a paroxysm of remorseful grief she caught up a pen and wrote to Julian:

“Would to God, my father, that the earth had swallowed me ere I came to Toledo! What am I to tell you of that which it is meet to conceal? Alas! my father, your lamb has been entrusted to the wolf. She were better dead than dishonoured. Hasten to rescue your unhappy Florinda. Come quickly.”

Tying this brief missive in a square of silk, and fastening it with a ribbon, she called to her a young page, bred at her father’s court, who had been especially appointed to her service.

“Adolfo,” said she, and sobs were in her voice, “saddle the swiftest steed you can lay hands on, and if ever, dear niño, you aspire to the honours of a belted knight in the service of my father, or hope for lady’s grace in the tourney; if ever—” here she burst into a flood of tears, moved by her own vehemence. “Oh, sweet Adolfo, dear little page, reared up in my home, for the love of Christ, ride day and night until you reach the sea. Then, at the price of gold, which I give you,” and she placed in his hands a heavy purse, “take the best boat and the swiftest rowers, and with flowing sail speed to my father at Ceuta, nor eat nor drink until you have placed this writing in his hand.”

Before the eager Florinda, whose every feature spoke the deadly anxiety she felt, the page, cap in hand, bowed low.

“Trust me, noble daughter of my honoured lord. I will truly execute your trust. Swiftly will I ride, nor turn aside for aught but death, either by land or sea.”

Placing the letter in the bosom of his gaudy vest, he kissed her hand and sped his way, mounted a fast horse he found in the patio of the Palace, galloped down the declivity, through the Golden Gate, and so on into the eternal plains which gird about Toledo, until clouds of dust concealed him from Florinda’s anxious gaze.

Meanwhile, Julian, fighting valiantly in Africa, had just repulsed an attack of Mousa on the castle of Ceuta, standing on a cape which juts out into the Straits, the nearest point to the Spanish mainland. It was a desperate struggle; the Moors, under the command of the famous Arabs, rallying again and again.

The news of such a success spread round not only in Africa but over all the breadth of Spain. The landing of the Moors in Andalusia was a constant subject of terror on the mainland. Men knew that the Gothic nation no longer held together as under the early kings, and that each chief looked to himself alone, caring but little what became of his neighbours. The castles were dismantled by the selfish policy of Witica and Roderich, and the army was sunk into the same luxurious ease as the rest of the nation.

The name of Julian was soon on every lip. He was hailed as a saviour, and blessings invoked on him as the bulwark of the Cross.

With the sound of this homage ringing in his ears, the page arrives at Ceuta, bearing the letter from Florinda. Julian at once summons him to his tent, as perchance the bearer of some signal

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

ULIAN’S first object is, without exciting suspicion, to remove his daughter from Toledo. Full of the project of revenge, he crosses the Straits and repairs to the Court. Wherever he appears is hailed as the leader to whose prowess the nation owes its safety. Roderich, counting on the silence of Florinda, receives him with a frank and generous welcome, and loads him with new honours. Julian, meanwhile, artfully magnifies the present danger which threatens the frontier, and prepares all things for his return to Africa. For Florinda he obtains leave of absence from the queen “to attend upon her mother Frandina, dangerously ill at Algeciras.” Together they cross the bridge of the Tagus, followed by the shouting populace, but as his horse’s hoofs strike on the opposite bank he raises his mailed hand, and shakes it in the air as he turns his eyes towards the Alcazar.

“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

ON RODERICH, seated with the beauteous Queen Egilona in the royal castle of Toledo, eagerly questions a herald sent forward by Teodomir from Murcia.

“What tidings from the south?” he asks.

“Of great woe,” is the answer. “Already the rock of Calpe has fallen. The noble Teodomir is wounded. The Gothic troops, O King, fly before the Moslem. Whether they come from heaven or hell we know not. They have no ships, yet they overrun the coast. Send us aid with speed.”

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

LL night a light burned in the tent of Don Roderich. If he slept, his slumbers were troubled. Now the pale form of Florinda rises before him with sad eyes, then the hideous vision of the necromantic Tower of Hercules haunts him. He starts up, and, opening the purple hangings of his tent, gazes out at the starry splendour of the Southern night.

Before him lay the grassy flats about Xerez, dimly lit by the dark glow of the signal fires marking the verge of the opposite camps. A pale crescent moon hanging over the Moslem tents brought out the lines of low hills far back on the horizon. Not a sound was heard but the tramp of the sentinels, or the neigh of a war-horse, ill-stabled on the turf. The distant click of a horse’s hoofs roused him to attention, and he distinctly saw the shadowy outline of a single horseman hurrying along the river’s verge, the bearer of the message big with his doom.

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

GAIN we are at Cordoba! Under the protection of its river-girt walls the flying Goths draw breath. From Cordoba the king has started his great army, spreading like waves over the Andalusian plains. To Cordoba, Pelistes and a few terrified fugitives return, bringing tidings of the catastrophe.

The men of Cordoba crowd round them with terror in their looks. Pelistes shakes his aged head, tears gather in his eyes.

“Roderich is fallen,” they cry. “Your silence reveals it. Be to us a king, O Pelistes, and defend us from the Moors.”

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

shrieked, struggling to rush out. “Do you see”—and she pointed upwards to the chain of heights shutting in the city—“the hills of the Sierra take strange shapes—I dare not look on the green valleys! See the flying Goths curse me. They come! They come! showing their gaping wounds. Look, look, the plains run with blood. The figure of the king rides by! I know him! He is fair. It is Roderich, but sick to death. See, his horse falters. He falls. On, on they come, the Gothic host, but with the faces of corpses. Surely they did not ride thus to battle? Do you hear the voices in the air? Death, death to Florinda! And I will die, as they bid me!”

With a wild cry that rang round the perfumed groves of the Alcazar, before Julian could stop her, she had rushed to the entrance of a tower which jutted from the walls into the garden, and, bounding up the stairs, barred the upper door.

Her father, speechless with horror, stood rooted to the spot; a moment more, and her slight form leaned over the battlements. “Now, now, I come,” she shouted. “No ghost can haunt me there,” and from the topmost parapet she flung herself!

Hapless Florinda! Thus she passed; but still in that garden, it is said, the spiked palm-leaves rustle in the breeze, like souls in pain; the canes and the reeds bow their heads over the fountains, the frogs croak sadly in the cisterns, and a Moorish cascade, rushing down a flight of marble steps, sings in voiceless melodies her name.

CHAPTER VIII
Frandina and her Son Put to Death by Alabor

T this time a Mussulman Emir, named Alabor, ruled in Cordoba under the Sultan Suleiman of Damascus. Alabor, who was a hard and zealous follower of Mahomet, looked with suspicion on the Christian apostates, who professed his faith simply to save their lives, but who in their hearts regarded the Moslem invaders with the natural hatred of a conquered race.

Of all those Gothic knights who bore arms under Tháryk, he most misdoubted Julian. Certain movements of insurrection which took place among the Christians in Pelayo’s possessions in the yet unconquered district of the Asturias were not without suspicion of powerful encouragement from the south.

Julian, on the death of Florinda, had resolved to send Frandina and his little son back to Africa. Did this mean that he was preparing to play false with his allies? “A traitor once, a traitor ever,” thought the crafty Alabor. That he might decide his doubts in true Moslem fashion, he called in one of those miserable impostors called fakirs, who wander over the face of the land in the East, and profess to read the future by the stars.

After listening to all the Emir had to say, the Fakir began his incantation. First sand was sprinkled, then squares and circles and diagrams were drawn upon the floor; then, while standing in the midst, he affected to read the lines of fate from a parchment covered with cabalistic characters. “O Emir,” he said, “your words of wisdom are justified. Beware of the apostates.”

“Enough,” replied the Emir. “They shall die.”

At that time Julian was still at Cordoba in great grief for the recent death of Florinda. “Tell my lord,” he said, in reply to the earnest invitation of Alabor, “I pray him to hold me excused from coming to visit him. Such of my followers as can aid him in any warlike project I freely send; but for myself I am unable.”

This was enough for Alabor; here was ample confirmation of the Fakir’s prediction. So, not to be behindhand with the voice of fate, he at once condemned to death that wily churchman and renegade, Archbishop Opas, Frandina’s brother, who had turned the battle of the Guadalete against Roderich, and with him the two sons of Witica, as possible pretenders to the crown.

Still Julian escaped him by a rapid flight into Aragon. But his wife Frandina and his only son could be reached.

The castle of Ceuta, which formed part of the Gothic (Iberian) African possessions, then called Tingitana, stood on an extreme point, a cape of rocky altitude, with bastions and mullioned walls; in the midst rose a central tower or citadel, in which the governor had his abode. Few casements there were, and those looking over the tossing billows of that unquiet Strait which flows between the two continents, so that each coming vessel could be noted long before it touched the quay; a place wholly of defence, and which had therefore been chosen to shelter Julian’s wife and son.

Frandina, a woman of masculine courage and keen understanding, had at all times fanned the flame of her husband’s ambition. No longer young, she still bore traces of that radiant beauty which had held her lord faithful in the dissolute courts of Witica and Roderich.

On her brow should have rested the pointed diadem worn by the Gothic queens; not on a Moorish stranger who could never learn the customs of the land. Ever hoping to attain the object of her desires she wilfully worked on the evil passions of her lord, before the calamity which befell Florinda came as a cause and a reason for treason.

No figure of that romantic period stands out in stronger relief than that of Frandina, who moves and speaks before us in her habit as she lived in spite of the long track of centuries.

Without news from Spain, knowing nothing of what has happened at Cordoba to her brother Opas or to her lord, she eats out her heart in ceaseless watching for some white-sailed felucca or swift-rowed trireme to bring her tidings. All day she has trod the battlements looking north-ward, and strained her eyes in vain. Now she sits in her chamber. An iron lamp casts a weird light on the tapestries which line the walls, the wind moans without about the turrets, and the dashing waves roll deep below.

Is it the hollow moan of the far-off tempest, or the screech of an owl which makes her start from her seat and eagerly listen?

There is no fall of feet upon the winding stairs, but a well-known voice comes to her so plainly that she rushes to the door. Ere she can reach it, her brother Opas stands before her, habited as she last saw him in the flowing vestments of an archbishop; not in aspect as he appeared in life, but as a wan and shadowy spectre unfolding itself to her sight in the darkness around. Before she can speak he waves her off. He is ghastly pale, and drops of blood seem to fall from his head. With one hand he points to the opposite wall where burns like orbs of fire the word, Beware!

“Touch me not, sister,” a hollow voice utters; “I am come from the grave to warn you. Guard well your son. The enemies of our house are near.” Thus speaking all disappears. His coming and going are alike mysterious. Brave as she is, a horror she never knew before comes over Frandina.

Next morning, in the fair sunlight, a swiftly rowing galley brings the news of Opas’s death and Julian’s flight. Not a moment is to be lost! There in the offing she descries the Moorish fleet, bearing the Emir from Cordoba. The wind blows fair for Africa—before noon he will be off the shore. Fifty Moors, who form part of the garrison, are put to death with incredible cruelty for fear of treachery; the city gates are closed.

Alabor, whose fury knows no bounds, for he has calculated on arriving before the news has reached Frandina, orders the castle to be assaulted on every side. The walls are carried. Frandina, shut up in the citadel with a forlorn hope, has no thought but for the safety of her son. How conceal him? A mother’s wit is keen. Among the living he is not safe, but surely they will not seek him with the dead. Passing down long flights of narrow steps she carries him below into a dark, damp chapel. Scarcely a ray of light penetrates the gloom.

“Are you afraid of the darkness, my boy?” she asks, kissing his warm cheek.

“No, mother. I shall fancy that it is night, and try to sleep.”

On one side of a narrow marble aisle, held up by clustered pillars, is the freshly built tomb of Florinda, whose body has been carried here from Cordoba.

“Do you fear your dead sister, my boy?” again Frandina asks.

“No, mother; the dead can do no harm. Why should I fear Florinda?”

Unbarring the entrance which leads into the vault, Frandina stands on the threshold, her arms around her son.

“Listen,” she says, and her kisses rain upon his cheek as she strains him to her bosom in an agony of fear. “The Moors from Spain have sailed over to murder you. Stay here with your dead sister, dear child; her spirit will guard you. Lie quiet for your life!”

The boy kissed his mother, and fearlessly descended the steps, to where the marble coffin holding Florinda’s body lay on a still uncovered stand. The faded wreaths cast on it gave out a stale perfume.

All that day and the next and the following night the brave boy lay still.

Meanwhile, the troops of the Emir penetrated into the citadel, and Alabor himself forced his way into the chamber of the countess.

“My lord,” she said, rising from the ponderous chair in which she was seated, a sarcastic courtesy in her tone and in the low obeisance with which she greeted him, “you are pleased to profit somewhat ungallantly by the absence of my lord. Do you deem this a fitting way to enter the stronghold of him to whom you owe the conquest of Spain?”

The Emir, surprised by the dignified calm of her demeanour, would have withdrawn, but the Fakir who had followed him, pulled the sleeve of his garment, and whispered in his ear: “Ask for her son.”

Low as the words were spoken, she heard them and turned pale. “My son, great Alabor, is with the dead. Let him rest in peace.”

“Wife of Don Julian,” cried the Emir, “you trifle with me. Where is he? Tell me, or torture shall make you.”

“Emir,” she spoke again, and her calm face showed no trace of fear, “if I have not spoken the truth, may everlasting fire be my portion. He is with the dead.”

Alabor was confounded by the composure of her answer. So great was her courage and the dignity with which she faced him, that he was just about to retire, when the Fakir again broke in:

“Let me deal with her, my lord,” he said. “The heart of the Emir is too tender. I will find the boy. Soldiers, search the vaults of the castle.”

No trace upon the countenance of Frandina betrayed alarm. She herself led the way to the different subterranean chambers within the citadel. When the searchers and the grim old Fakir, hideous and naked, save for a ragged cloth about his loins, but esteemed all the more holy from his filth, descended the winding stairs leading to the chapel, Frandina did not falter. In her presence every corner was ransacked by the aid of torches. Nothing was found. But as all were leaving, and she stood already under the arch of the door, to see them all file safely by, some gleam of relief, some

unconscious look of joy passed over her face. It was noted by the horrible Fakir.

“She rejoices,” was his thought. “We are leaving the boy behind. Let further search be made,” he commands, turning back the soldiers, whose feet were already on the stairs.

“The boy is with the dead,” Frandina had said. Now the words came back to him with a special meaning, for the walls were lined with tombs which stood out conspicuous in the vivid glare of the torches, striking on the marble panels. On one was the escutcheon of an ancient knight, surmounted by a coronet; there a sculptured figure in armour lay at rest; further on a deeply indented effigy in coloured stone, upon which an inscription set forth the valour of the mouldering bones within. The tomb of Florinda, white and glistening by the side of the others, displayed her effigy in polished marble, a delicately chiselled form—this at once attracted the attention of the Fakir.

“Who lies there?” he asked, turning his twinkling eyes, overshadowed by hairy eyebrows, on the shrinking figure of Frandina, who, trembling from head to foot, sought to hide her face in the deep shadow of a pillared vault, beside the gate of entrance; “this tomb seems the newest.”

“It is my daughter’s tomb,” replied Frandina; but with all her fortitude, she was conscious of a trembling in her voice, and her dry lips could scarcely articulate the words, “She is but lately dead.”

The Fakir eyed her with a devilish glance. Then, turning to the Moorish soldier, whose eyes rolled under the high turban with a wicked satisfaction at the discomfiting of the Christian,—

“Search within,” he orders, his gaze bent on her. Alas! it was soon done. The entrance of the recently entered monument was partly open; within lay what death had spared of Florinda, the bier covered with a fine cloth of Eastern tissue, the hands covered with precious stones.

At first, the Nubian guard, staggered at the strange sight, fall back, but soon recalled by the stern voice of the Fakir, they lifted the pall. The boy lay underneath! He was asleep, his soft cheek turned upwards, cradled on his arm.

Like a figure carved in stone stood Frandina, but when she saw her son her mother’s heart gave way. With a shriek, so piercing that it woke the echoes in the prisons underneath, she dashed forward and cast herself upon the child.

“Mercy, O Emir! if you have ever known a mother’s care! Mercy! mercy! This is my only child—the joy of my life—my little son! Take me for him!” and raising herself on her knees with frantic passion, the boy clinging round her neck, she tries to grasp his hands.

Wrenching himself from her as if she were some noxious animal, Alabor thunders to the guards: “Take this woman’s son from her, and bear her hence to the deepest dungeon.”

The boy stood alone before the Emir, big tears rolling down his face, not from fear, but for the sake of his mother, whose frantic screams were heard long after they had dragged her away.

If Alabor had but a spark of human pity, he would have melted to the pretty boy, who faced him so bravely, but he had sworn the destruction of Don Julian’s race, and his heart hardened within him as he gazed on the innocent eyes. With a keen searching glance he measured the slight figure of the child, and smiled to see how frail he was and small.

“Yusa,” he said to the Fakir, “be you the keeper of Julian’s son. Guard him as you love me.” And so he and his guards departed, leaving them alone.

“I pray you,” said the boy, undaunted by the looks of his grim companion, who stood holding a torch and watching him under his overhanging eyebrows, “to give me air. I have lain three days in this close tomb, and I am faint.”

Without a word they mount the winding stair, until they reach the platform of the keep. Through the high turrets was a wondrous view across the Straits, lined by broad currents of varying blues and greens, to where, dim in the distance, lay the lowlands of Spain. Round and round flew the seagulls, below the waves beat, thundering on the rocks which guard the harbour, cresting back in foam. As the child stood near the battlements, the sea wind raising his curly hair, he gave a cry of joy and clapped his hands.

“Do you know what land that is opposite?” asks the Fakir, pointing to the dim coast line, an evil leer upon his lips.

“It is my country,” is the answer, “we come from Spain; my mother told me.”

“Then bless it, my boy; stretch forth your arms.”

As the boy loosened his hold of the parapet, the cunning Fakir seized him by the waist, and, with a sudden motion, flung him over the battlements. Every bone in his delicate body was broken ere it reached the rock where he lay, a little lifeless heap.

“How fares it with Julian’s son?” asks the voice of Alabor, as he appears on the platform of the keep.

“Well,” is the brief answer.

“Is he safe?” he asks again, looking round.

“He is safe,” answered Yusa; “behold!”

And the Emir looked over and saw the battered form, like a slight speck below, around it the seagulls and vultures already circling.

The following morning, at the break of day, in the great court of the castle, from which all the issues to the different towers open, Frandina is led out for execution.

That she knows her son is dead, is written in her eyes. No word passes her lips. Like a queen she moves, command in every gesture. With her the Christians of the garrison are brought forth to suffer. As the dismal procession passes round the court, the voice of the insatiable Alabor is heard:

“Behold, O men of Spain, the wife of your commander. See the ruin to which her treason would have brought you. Let every man take a stone and fling it at her till she dies. He that refuses shall have his head struck off. In the hand of God is vengeance. Not on our heads be her blood.”

How or where Julian himself died is not certain. Some chronicles say he perished in the mountains of Navarre, where he had taken refuge; others that he met his death in the castle of Marmello, near Huesca, in Aragon. A violent death of some sort came to the great Kingmaker of Spain.

On his name a perpetual curse rests, and to this day, in Spain “Julian” is synonymous with traitor.

CHAPTER IX
The Moors at Seville—Mousa and Abdul-asis

EANWHILE the great Emir Mousa is moved by fierce jealousy of the success of Tháryk of the one-eye. Not only had he overrun the mountains of the Moon and conquered Granada, but the city of Toledo, the capital of Northern Spain, was opened to him by the Jews.

This is too much to bear from an inferior. Swift messengers are despatched across the Straits to bid him wait until Mousa arrives. He laughs to scorn the message, and battles as before, his light squadrons penetrating farther and farther into the north of Spain.

Mousa had many sons, but history concerns itself with one only, by name Abdul-asis, pale-skinned, with large romantic eyes and a too tender heart. Abdul-asis sailed with his father across the Straits, and a great army of Moors and illustrious emirs accompanied them.

“By the head of the Prophet,” quoth Mousa, as he consulted the map of Spain, “that hireling of the one-eye has left us no land to conquer. He is a glutton, who eateth all.” But on a more minute examination, it was found that there was still room in the vast country of Spain for earning further laurels. Tháryk had as yet left Andalusia unconquered.

Andalusia! the very name is poetry—mystic, unfathomed, vague! Reaching far back into fabulous ages where history cannot follow! The home of jonglerie, magic, and song! Would that I could paint the turquoise of its skies, the endless purple of its boundless plains, the dusky shade of orange and myrtle woods dashed with the vivid green!

What art! what knowledge! And the sensuous charm of a heavenly climate, where winter is never known, and spring passes into summer without a struggle; a land loved by the veiled beauties of the East, looking down through shadows of the fretted miradores, marble galleries, and patios, on barbican towers and Roman walls!

And what a people, cloudless in temper as the heavens! To love flowers, to dance seguidillas, and oles, and to tell tales, that is your Andalusian—grouped in circles anywhere, under a hedge or a plane-tree, on a grassy knoll, in gilded halls, or beneath painted arches. A happy, thoughtless race at all times, taking life and conquest as it comes.

If Andalusia is left to Mousa, Tháryk has lost the fairest jewel of Spain.

Abdul-asis spoke to his father.

“My lord and father,” he said, “as yet I have done nothing to deserve a sword. Behold, when my service is over, and I return to Egypt and appear before the Sultan, what will he say when I answer that I have gained no battle, and taken no city or castle? Good my father, if you love me, grant me some command, and let me gain a name worthy of your son.”

To this Mousa answered: “Allah be praised! The heart of Abdul-asis beats in the right place. Your desire, my son, shall be granted. While I go north, to besiege Merida, you shall march southwards. Seville has defeated the Moors, and quartered Christian troops in the barbican. Be it your care to drive out these unbelieving dogs, and plant once more the Crescent on the Giralda tower. Reduce the city, and spoil the land. Then pass southward, and conquer the province of Murcia, where the Gothic Teodomir defends himself with a handful of troops.”

When Abdul-asis, who read the Persian poets and had himself tried his hand at verse, came in sight of beautiful Seville, lying like a white lily surrounded by the shadows of dark woods, he sighed:

“Alas! is it for me,” he said, “to bring destruction upon so fair a scene? Why am I come to dye with blood those flowery groves, and burden the tide of the Guadalquivir with corpses? Alas! why did not my father choose some place less lovely on which to bring ruin than this the palm-crowned queen of cities!”

Thus mourned Abdul-asis, but not so the fiery Africans whom he commanded. They gazed on the walls with wrath, and longed to flesh their scimitars in Christian blood.

It was with the utmost difficulty that the merciful Abdul-asis stopped the massacre when the city fell. It pained his gentle heart, for its many beauties, especially the palm-planted gardens of the Alcazar, vocal with purling streams and bubbling fountains, so dear to the Arab fancy.

“Here,” thought Abdul-asis, as he wandered among the myrtle-bordered paths, fragrant with jasmine and violet, “is the paradise promised to the faithful, but where are the houris, whose white embraces are to make it sweet?” Neither did the voluptuous movements of the dancing girls (for Seville in all ages has been famed for the baile), moving with uplifted arms and quivering limbs in the vito or the zapateado, intoxicate his senses; nor did the voices of the young niñas, chanting the malagueñas to cither and lute, draw him from the poetic melancholy which possessed his soul, as he turned his steps from alley to alley, not having yet found the ideal of which he was in search.

But the son of Mousa was a warrior, though the gods had made him poetical. He could not long be idle, and hastened to fulfil the second mission confided to him by Mousa—to overcome the far-off province of Murcia.

Another faithful knight who had survived the battle of the Guadalete was Teodomir, who, by skilful management had entrenched himself in Murcia. Not only brave, but singularly prudent, Teodomir had observed that to oppose the Moors openly in the field was to ensure defeat, therefore he had fortified as best he could, every wild recess of the rocky hills lying toward the coast, and every rise and knoll whence he could shoot down arrows and missiles. So that when Abdul-asis appeared in the land, cleft asunder by wide rivers and divided by swamps and flats, he encountered no enemy.

“This is a blind warfare,” he cried, “a war without a foe. What manner of man is this Goth who wages war in the clouds, and with a few raw troops holds my army in check?”

With a grim smile Teodomir marked the success of his tactics. Spies told him that, in the council of Abdul-asis, retreat had already been mooted, and more and more he insisted upon giving his enemy no chance in the open.

Not so his sons. “What glory is there here?” say these youths. “Let us go forth and face him. We are as good as he. If our men are less disciplined, courage makes up the balance.”

“Fools,” answered old Teodomir, laying his wrinkled hands upon them, and drawing them to him, that he might make them if possible understand his counsels. “Glory dazzles from afar, but safety is the best when a foe knocks at the door.”

Continued dropping wears a stone. To his great joy, as the sun rose and the weary eyes of handsome Abdul-asis turned towards the marshy plains, he beheld Teodomir riding onwards towards the camp at the head of his troops, a son on either hand, the old Goth in the centre in shining armour, with nodding plumes, preceded by flags and horsemen.

“Now Allah be praised!” he exclaims. “At last! Saddle my war-horse Suleiman, and let all the sheikhs follow me, for it is written in the book of fate that these dogs of Christians are given into our hands.”

“Alas! my sons,” said Teodomir, reining up his steed, as his practised eye showed him the purpose of the dark body of advancing Arabs, with the green flags, galloping rapidly in the rear, under the cover of the heights. “Alas! it has happened as I said. We are cut off. What can our raw troops do against these well-armed Arabs? Let us make for the fastness of Orihuela while we can.”

The sons, however, would not listen, but like vain youths opposed their father’s counsel, as did also the captains. The Moor asked for nothing better. He attacked then fiercely in the open plain, cut down the two presumptuous boys before their father’s eyes, and beat his troops, who fled on all sides.

Nor could Teodomir stay the flight. Seeing that all was lost, and his sons dead, he seized the bridle of a horse ridden for him by a little page, who tended him in his tent, and who like the rest was spurring onward in full flight.

“Tarry a moment, my son,” says Teodomir, grasping the bridle with an iron grip. “Mount behind and part not from me, for I will save thy life!”

So digging his huge spurs into his horse’s flanks, at which the well-trained animal, used to his practised touch, reared indignantly on its hind legs and pawed the air, then started off in a wild gallop, swift as the rushing wind. Nor did they pause until, mounting the steep zig-zag path, they were both safe within the fortress of Orihuela.

There it still stands, a castle of defence, crowned by dark bulwarks on a mountain chain, an outlook for scores of miles over a flat country towards Granada and the sea. Round and round the base winds the road from Alicante, through overhanging lanes, under palm-trees and embowering citron woods, broken by red earthed barrancas. The town itself (Auri-welah) is still very Eastern, with domed church and castellated towers, the whole district with great tidal rivers cutting through, fertile beyond words.

As the day fell, and the sun went down in lemon-coloured clouds, Abdul-asis approached, thinking to find an easy conquest. But to his amazement the walls appeared fully garrisoned, and from the keep a proud flag floated, bearing the colours of the Goths.

“How is this?” said the son of Mousa. “Is it a necromancy? Or have these men risen from the

earth? With my own eyes I saw Teodomir flying alone, a page riding behind him. His sons are dead, his forces scattered. Who are these but fiends he has summoned by magic to his aid?”

And fear fell upon him as he gazed, and he commanded that no attack be ventured, but that the camp should be formed at the base of the rock until morning.

Upon which Teodomir, who was looking out, took a flag of truce, fastened it to a lance, put a herald’s tabard on the back of the page who had fled with him, and a high-crowned hat on his head, and went down to where the purple tent and the Crescent standard marked the spot where Abdul-asis was to be found.

“I come,” said Teodomir, in a tone of lofty courtesy, raising his iron vizor, and showing the stern face of a warrior, the young page behind him, proud of the particoloured dress, and swaying the flag of truce in cadence to his words, “I come as a Gothic knight into your presence, most magnanimous son of Mousa, whom men call ‘the merciful,’ to treat of the surrender of the castle. As you see, our walls are fully manned, and we have food for a lengthened siege. But much blood has flowed. I have lost my sons, and fain would spare the lives of my people. Promise that we may pass unmolested, and when the rising sun tips the circle of mountains towards the east, we will surrender. Otherwise, we will fight until none are left.”

Abdul-asis, young in craft and unsuspecting, as became the poetic quality of his soul, was greatly struck with the bold words of the veteran, who stood his ground so valiantly alone against an army. The castle, too, was strong, and appeared amply defended. Generosity in this case was policy. He consented gladly, standing forth alone, a crimson caftan thrown over his armour, the folds of his turban shading his massive Egyptian features and his lustrous eyes. To the articles of capitulation, he hastened to affix his seal. Then he addressed Teodomir:

“Tell me, bold Christian,” said he, “you who have ventured alone into the Moorish camp, now that we are friends, of what force is the garrison of Orihuela?”

A grim smile spread over the face of the veteran. “Wait and see,” was his answer. “With the morning light we will evacuate the place.”

As the sun rises in glory behind the eastern mountain tips, and its first rays strike upon the battlements, Teodomir appears, followed by a motley crowd of old women, greybeards, and children tottering down the descent.

Abdul-asis waited with wondering eyes until they had reached the plain. “Where,” he said, “O Teodomir, are the valiant soldiers who lined the walls, and have so well maintained the honour of the Goths?”

“Soldiers,” answers Teodomir; “by the Lord, I have none. My garrison is before you. These manned the walls. My page”—here he pointed to the stripling disguised in the habit of a herald, the heavy coat dragging after him upon the ground, the helmet falling over his face—“is my herald, guard, and army.”

Ere Teodomir had finished speaking, a great uproar arose among the Moors.

“Tear him limb from limb,” cry the sheikhs. “Cut the throat of the Christian dog. Let him not live who deceives the Moslems of Islam!” But with a stern gesture Abdul-asis interposed: “Let no man dare to touch the Christian knight,” he orders. “By righteous fraud he has defended his castle. I command that the rights of war are granted him.”

Then, taking Teodomir by the hand he led him to his tent, and ordered wine and meat to be served to him as to himself. And in memory of this defence the provinces of Murcia and Valencia, all through the Moorish occupation, were known as “the Land of Tadmir” or “Teodomir.”

Thanks to the rivalry between these two commanders, Mousa and Tháryk, Gothic Spain had fallen to the Moors in an incredibly short space of time: the banners of the Crescent waved from Pelayo’s country in the mountains of the Asturias in the north, to Calpe and the Pillars of Hercules in the south; from the borders of Lusitania (Estremadura) in the west, to the coast of Tarragona and Valencia in the east; and the mighty city of Saragossa, where so many Christians had taken refuge, also yielded.

At length a summons came from Sultan Suleiman, at Damascus, to both leaders, to appear before him, to render an account of their conquests and their spoils, as well as to settle the justice of those dissensions which raged so fiercely between them.

Before he left Spain, Mousa addressed a letter to his son, at Seville. “Son of my heart,” he wrote, “may Allah guard thee! Thou art of too tender and confiding a nature. Listen to thy father’s words. Avoid all treachery, for, being in thyself loyal, thou mayest be caught by it. Trust no one who counsels it. I have placed with thee at Seville, according to the inexperience of thy age, our kinsman, the discreet Ayub. Listen to his counsels in all things, as thou wouldst to myself. Beware, too, O my son, of the seductions of love. As yet thy heart is untouched. May Allah so preserve it! Love is an idle passion, which enfeebles the soul and blinds the judgment. Love renders the mighty weak, and makes slaves of princes. Farewell. May Allah guard thee and lengthen thy days.”

CHAPTER X
Abdul-asis and Egilona

HE Alcazar at Seville (each Spanish city has its Alcazar) still stands in the centre of the city. Not the decorated palace we see it now, rebuilt by the Toledan Zalubi for Prince Abdurrahman, and afterwards enlarged and beautified by Don Pedro el Cruel, in imitation of the Alhambra of Granada, but a veritable citadel, surrounded by low tapia walls, on the verge of the tidal current of the Guadalquivir, and flanked by the Gothic tower (Torre del oro) which still remains.

Not a poetic ruin, this Alcazar like the Alhambra, but a real castle, whole and entire, ready to receive, to this day, emirs or sultans, kings, queens, or princes, whenever their good pleasure calls them to Seville.

Behind lie the gardens, flushed with roses, oleanders, and pomegranates, approached by stately terraces sweet with the familiar scent of carnation, violet, and jasmine. A delicious plaisance formed into a series of squares, divided by low myrtle hedges, and orange-lined walls, central fountains bubbling up in sheets of foam, and streams and runnels, tanks and ponds, along which are walks paved with variegated tiles.

The azahar of a thousand blossoms is in the air, golden oranges hang tempting on the stem, and deeply tinted butterflies course each other among embowered alleys, leading to gaily painted kiosks and pavilions with latticed walls.

Whether Abdul-asis exacted the tribute demanded by the Moorish law of a hundred Christian “virgins, fifty rich and fifty poor,” to adorn his harem, I cannot say. He would scarcely have dared openly to omit it. But instead of choosing from among these damsels that pleased his eye, and selling the rest as slaves, he contented himself with selecting one, and dowered such others who were poor, and married them to his Moors.

In his harem he also maintained many Christian captives as hostages for the land. But they were treated not only with respect, but with luxury, within the precincts of the lovely little Patio de las Muñecas—from all time devoted to the harem—the loveliest sheet of snowy lace-work ever beheld. Not a speck of colour on the pure stone; not a badge or motto, only tiers of open galleries, latticed in white.

If ever these dark Eastern beauties return to haunt the glimpses of the moon, it is surely in this patio their dazzling forms will linger!

Here they lived a pleasant life, plied their fingers in rich embroidery copied from the looms of Damascus, danced ole or cachucha, to castanets, or sang to lute and cither those wild malagueñas, with long sad notes.

Many were even contented with their lot. But all followed with longing eyes the graceful form of the young Emir, putting forth their charms to attract his roving eyes.

“Beware, O my son, of the seductions of love,” had written Mousa to his son. “It is an idle passion which enfeebles the heart and blinds the judgment.”

And so his discreet cousin Ayub continually repeated, but, spite of these warnings, Abdul-asis often solaced himself in the company of the fair, specially among the Christian captives, who were both beautiful and well-educated. Indeed, it was here the lonely young Emir spent his happiest hours, as the moon mounted into the realm of blue and star after star shone out to be doubled in the basins of the fountains, the murmur of innumerable jets and streamlets falling on the ear.

It was peace, absolute peace, such as comes to those balancing on the bosom of the sea, or on desert plains, or in the mystery of deep forests, or in the grave!

One night as his eyes range unconsciously into the gloom, he is startled to find that he is not alone.

Deep within a thicket of aloes the lines of a woman’s form are visible, seated upon the ground.

“Who can this be?” he asks himself with breathless haste. “I cannot recall having seen her before, either in the harem or among the captives.”

Yet it was a form, once seen, not to be forgotten. Her dark hair hung like a cloud over her shoulders, and her eyes, as she turned them upwards, catching a ray of moonlight, shone out like stars.

“Who is she?” And Abdul-asis rises softly, the better to observe her. “Yes, she is matchless, but that sadness is not natural. Her attitude, her movements are languid and full of pain. Her hands lie weary. She avoids her companions. What can it mean? Some tale of deep sorrow is shut up in her soul. She is under my roof and I am ignorant of her life. I will at once address her.”

For some minutes he stood silent, his eyes wandering over the many beauties which disclosed themselves to his gaze; but to his astonishment, as he looked closer, he perceived from the dark olive of her skin that the stranger must be an Egyptian or a Moor.

At last, moved by a singular emotion, he addressed her.

“Who are you, gentle lady?” he asked, his naturally sweet voice tuned to its softest accents. “Why do you sit alone? Confide to me your grief.”

“Death alone can end it,” was her reply.

“Nay,” whispered Abdul-asis, in a voice melting with pity, “fair one, seek not to sacrifice that which Allah has made so perfect. The very sense of loveliness is yours. Let it be mine. As the houris of Paradise dwell under the shadow of the Great Angel’s wings, so, lady, shall you dwell under mine. I am Lord of Andalusia. Power is in my hands. Speak to me,” and he drew near and touched the tips of her henna-stained fingers. “Have faith in me.” If he had dared he would have clasped her to his heart. Never had the veiled fair ones of the harem moved him so.

With his lustrous eyes fixed on hers he waited for an answer, or at least for some sign that she was not displeased. None came.

Now this to Abdul-asis was a new development of woman which served only to heighten the ardour of his sudden passion. Opposition proverbially is a spur to love, and now the old axiom operated in full force upon one who had never known repulse.

Again he assayed to clasp her delicate fingers within his own and gently draw her towards him.

“Light of my life,” he murmured, “speak!” In vain—the lady replied only by her sobs. Nor was it in the power of Abdul-asis to make her speak.

At length—was it the languid beauty of the night, the power of the moon, great in the annals of unspoken love, or some occult mystery communicated to her by his touch?—a rosy bloom rose on her dark cheeks and, withdrawing her hand from his ardent clasp, she suddenly unlocked the mystery of her coral lips.

“I am Egilona,” she whispered, as if she feared to confide the name to the night air; “once wife of Don Roderich and Queen of Spain.”

Words cannot paint the amazement of Abdul-asis. That the beautiful stranger, known to have become a captive after the defeat of the Guadalete, should be dwelling within his Alcazar, unknown to himself, seems too astonishing to comprehend! That he, too, unconsciously, should have presumed to approach her with the facile dalliance of love grieves his generous soul.

All which he endeavours to express to Egilona in the most eloquent language he can command, while he bends the knee before her as a vassal to his queen.

Then he sighed. Her royal position placed an insuperable barrier between them. Besides, he felt that the Caliph at Damascus ought to be notified at once of the possession of such an illustrious captive.

“Could he do so?” he asked himself. “Could he run the risk of losing her? No! a thousand times no!”

Chance or fate had thrown her in his way. She was actually a slave in his harem. There she should remain unless she herself wished otherwise.

Fortunately that tiresome person, the discreet Ayub, knew nothing about her. His reproaches, at all events, were not to be encountered. Possibly!—ah! possibly—a tender project formed itself in his brain. Would she, the wife of the royal Goth, consent to share an Emir’s throne?

But at that moment he was too much overcome and self-diffident to allow himself to pursue so roseate a dream.

Calling together his guards, hidden about the garden, but ever present near his person, Abdul-asis, with a heart torn by conflicting emotions, conducted Egilona through the marble courts to the Patio de las Muñecas.

All that the tenderest love could dictate was showered upon her by the amorous Emir. She lived in the royal apartments, and a special train of slaves, eunuchs, and women attended upon her. Before the gold-embroidered draperies of her door turbaned guards stood day and night, holding naked scimitars. Her table was served with the same luxury as that of a sultana. When she went abroad into the streets of Seville she rode on a beautiful palfrey, caparisoned with silken fringes, a silver bridle and stirrup, and a bit of gold. At the sound of the tinkling bells which hung about the harness, all who met her prostrated themselves to the earth, as though the Emir himself were passing. Even the muezzin, ringing out the hour of prayer from the galleries of the Giralda, was commanded to pronounce a blessing on her head.

Such a complete change in the life of Abdul-asis could not but arouse the wrath of the discreet Ayub. Numberless were the times he tried to waylay him, always ineffectually, however, for the Emir gave orders he was not to be admitted.

One day they did meet in the outer Patio de las Bandieras (where now the superb portal of Don Pedro blazes in the sun), just as Abdul-asis was mounting his horse for the chase.

“Hold, my cousin and lord,” cries Ayub, laying hold of his bridle. “Tarry awhile, I pray you, for the sake of our kinship. Am I a dog, that you should drive me with kicks and imprecations from your door?”

“Far from me be such a thought,” replies Abdul-asis, colouring. “No one thinks better of you than I. But, my cousin, permit me now to depart. Another time we will pursue the subject.”

“Bear with me now awhile rather,” cries Ayub, detaining him by the folds of his embroidered robe. “O Abdul-asis, remember the words of your father: ‘Beware, my son, of the seductions of love. It renders the mighty weak and makes slaves of princes.’ ”

The colour on the face of the Emir deepened into a flush of wrath. He was weary of hearing these words ever repeated—yet he kept silence.

“Time was, my cousin,” continues the discreet Ayub, “when you listened to my words, and all went well. Now, for the sake of a strange woman, a slave, a captive, you are bartering your kingdom.”

At this coarse allusion to the royal Egilona

Abdul-asis could scarcely resist the temptation of enlightening Ayub as to her real condition, but he forebore.

“It is my right, O Ayub, to love whom I choose,” he answers coldly, again preparing to mount his horse.

Again Ayub arrests him, and, forgetting all respect in the heat of his argument, fairly shouts in his ear:

“Yes, O son of the great Mousa, but not like that glorious warrior. Yes, free to love a whole tribe of slaves if you please, gather all the beauties from the corners of the earth, the houris of Paradise, if you can get them, but you have no right to sacrifice your throne and bring ruin on your race.”

To this torrent of reproach Abdul-asis answered not a word. Steadying by his touch and voice the exasperated horse, which had now become restive under the delay, as if sharing in the irritation of his master, Abdul-asis surveyed his cousin as if to demand what more abuse he had in store—a look and manner which only exasperated Ayub all the more.

“What kind of a sovereign are you,” he continued, in the same shrill voice, which echoed round the court and could not fail to reach the ears of the guards and eunuchs, however unmoved their countenances might remain, “who pretend to have no time to administer justice in the Gate as your Moorish ancestors did? Who neglect to review your troops in the great plains about the city and to take counsel upon the affairs of state with the chiefs and counsellors sent hither by the Caliph? Can you expect that he will continue you as governor, when the report of your acts comes to his ears? With you will fall your father Mousa and your brothers in Africa. Who is this witch who has overlooked you? Send her away, or by the name of Allah I will no longer screen you!”

Even the discreet Ayub paused here for lack of breath, and the young Emir, quickly vaulting into the saddle, rode off in a cloud of dust, followed by his attendants.

Yet, spite of these stinging words, his passion for Egilona was so consuming, that although he felt their truth and that he was entering upon a career full of danger, he could neither pause before it was too late, nor turn back altogether.

Day and night her image pursues him. Spite of all the warnings of Ayub, who, having once broken the ice, never ceases his threats and reproaches, every hour is devoted to her. In the shade of the Alcazar gardens, on the river Guadalquivir, where they float in a silver barge with perfumed sails, under canopies of cloth of gold and silver; within the gaudy halls, sculptured with glowing panels of arabesque, painted roofs, and dazzling dados; and in the Baños, full of breezes from the river and currents of free mountain air, planted with such shrubs and herbs as are used to scent the water, he is ever at her side.

So well did Egilona love the Baños, which reminded her of her African home, that she was wont to say to her favourite slave, the same dark-skinned girl from Barbary who had followed her from Toledo, “When I am dead, Zora, bury me here.”

Yet all this time Egilona had never opened her heart to Abdul-asis. Nor, eager as he was to know her history, had he ventured further to urge her, so great was his respect.

At length, of her own accord, she unveiled the mystery.

“Think not, O noblest of Moors,” she said, in a voice so soft it seemed to lull the agitation of his heart, “that I am insensible to your devotion. I dare not question my own heart.”

“My love, my sultana!” is all that he could answer, casting himself on the earth before her. “Happy destiny that I was born to be your slave!”

Egilona at once raised him, and entreated him to sit beside her.

“No, Abdul-asis, it is not within the power of a woman to resist you. My heart has long been yours. But,” and she sighed, and big tears gathered in her mild eyes and dropped one by one upon the hand Abdul-asis held clasped in his, “I fear that with my love I bring you an evil destiny. Remember the end of Roderich. Can I, oh, can I sacrifice you to the chances of the dark fate that pursues all who love me?”

The face of the Emir grew pale as he gazed at her. Spite of himself, an icy hand seemed to touch his heart and chill it into stone. These were the warnings of the discreet Ayub from her own lips.

Did ruin really lie in those matchless eyes? Was that pure chiselled face indeed the messenger of evil? A rising wave of passion cast these sinister forebodings from him, and, with a calm and steady voice, he answered:

“But why, my queen, should you, the wife of Roderich, be answerable for his doom? It is said that the Gothic king tempted the infernal powers when he forced open the portals of the Tower of Hercules and let forth the demons confined there upon the earth.”

“That is true,” answered Egilona, “and the rash act was doubtless the cause of his death. Still the misfortunes which cling to me seem to have led on to his. Had he not loved me he might have married the daughter of Don Julian.”

“And what misfortunes has my Egilona encountered? You forget I know not who you are, or how you came here.”

Then she recounted to him her royal birth, and how from childhood she had been affianced to the son of the King of Tunis; the history of the storm which threw her on the coast of Spain; the Alcaide of Denia (now Malaga), upon whom she had made so favourable an impression. (Here the enamoured Emir drew a deep sigh, and pressed his lips upon her hand as she lay half-reclining upon a pile of gold-worked cushions.)

“Again I wore the bridal robes,” she continued, “which I had on when I was shipwrecked, as I awaited Don Roderich.”

Here was a pause. Egilona drops her eyes and is silent. The veins on the forehead of Abdul-asis suddenly swell with agony. Every word she utters plunges a dagger in his breast. “This was the man she loved,” he tells himself. “By the Prophet, she will never be to me as she was to him—dog of a Christian!”

Meanwhile, guessing his thoughts, a thousand blushes suffuse the cheeks of poor Egilona and dye her olive skin with a ruddy brilliance. “What could I do?” she asks in a plaintive voice. “I had broken through the bonds of Eastern custom; I had despised the laws of the harem; I had stood face to face with man. The beauty and variety of the outer world was known to me. The visits of Don Roderich——”

“Say no more, my queen!” exclaims the generous-hearted Abdul-asis, ashamed of his jealous weakness. “Could any one approach you without love? I guess the conclusion.”

When the discreet Ayub was informed of the purpose of his cousin to wed the Gothic Queen, he covered his head and sat in sackcloth and ashes. In this unbecoming guise he forced himself into the presence of the Emir.

“Are you mad?” he cries, “O son of Mousa! Remember the words of your great father, bravest among the chiefs of Damascus: ‘Beware of love, my son. It is a passion——’ ”

“Enough, enough,” answers Abdul-asis, rising from the divan on which he had thrown himself, as the spectacle his cousin presented had moved him to laughter, “I have heard these words before.”

“And you will hear them again, O son of my kinsman! I will not forsake you, by Allah! for his sake, nor give you over to the evil genius that possesses you.”

But the wrongs of Ayub, however terrible, melted as wax before the fierce fire of the Emir’s love.

His nuptials with Egilona were celebrated with great pomp. Nor did possession cool his ardour. He lived but for her. He consulted with her in all the affairs of his government, and rejected the counsels of the discreet though most troublesome cousin.

For a time no evil consequences ensued, and the fears of Ayub were almost lulled. Yet who can resist his fate?

Reposing one day in a gorgeous chamber of the Alcazar (it is now called the room of Maria de Padilla, but it was then known as the Hall of the Sultana), Egilona drew from under the folds of her mantle a circlet of gold.

“See, love,” said she, “the crown of Roderich the Goth. Let me place it on your brow. It will become you well.”

Holding up as she spoke a steel mirror attached to her girdle by a rope of pearls, she called upon him to admire the majesty of his appearance.

With a sigh he looked at himself, the crown placed on the folds of his turban, then put it from him and, like Cæsar, sighed that it could not be his.

“My love,” says Egilona, replacing it, “the wearer of a crown is a sovereign indeed. Believe me, the Christians are right; it sanctifies the rule.”

A second time, like Cæsar, Abdul-asis put the crown from him. Yet did his fingers linger on the rim, while he endeavoured to explain to Egilona that, as a Moslem, she must not urge him to go against the custom of his nation.

Still Egilona insists, her soft fingers clasped in his, her tempting lips resting on his own.

“There has been no real king in Spain,” she urges, “without a crown. I pray you, dear husband, do not refuse me.”

At first it was only worn in private, but the fact was too strange not to be noised abroad. The Moorish damsels in attendance on Egilona and the guards and eunuchs which fill an Eastern Court bore the news from mouth to mouth as a strange wonderment.

“The Emir not only has wedded a Christian wife, but he wears the Gothic crown,” is whispered in Seville. “He seeks to rule us as Roderich did.” To this was added by the many-tongued voice of calumny, “that not only Egilona had induced him to become a king, but, oh horror of horrors, that he was surely a Christian!”

“By the head of the Prophet, I swear it is a lie!” cried the discreet Ayub to the ancient counsellors Mousa had placed about his son, who, in their long dark robes, gathered round him in dismay. “Not a day passes but Abdul-asis may be seen offering up his prayers in the Zeca, his face turned towards Mecca. Ask the muezzin at the Giralda if it be not so. Five times a day does he prostrate himself; and as to purifying, there is not water enough in Seville to serve him.”

“But the crown, most powerful vizier, does not the Emir wear a crown?”

At this Ayub, feigning a sudden fit of coughing, turned aside. “I have never seen it,” he answers at last; “I swear I have never seen it.”

“That may very likely be,” is the answer; “but it is well known, and for a Moslem to wear a Christian crown is against the laws of the Koran. Allah Achbar! we have spoken.” So, covering their faces with their robes, as those that mourn the dead, they departed from the presence of Ayub.

Enemies were not wanting to Abdul-asis in Seville, his own, and those who hated him as the son of the famous Mousa.

These wrote hasty letters to Damascus, accusing him not only of detaining captives of price, but as seeking to establish the Gothic kingdom by right of Egilona, acknowledged as their queen by all the Christians.

Now Suleiman, a new Caliph, was on the throne, and it so happened that he cherished a deep hatred against Mousa, whom he had divested of all his high commands in favour of the One-Eyed, who had brought rich spoil to Damascus.

The Caliph waited for no proofs, he wanted none. It was enough that Abdul-asis was accused, and that his death would be the heaviest punishment he could inflict on the unfortunate Mousa.

When the fatal scroll was laid before Ayub the parchment dropped from his hand.

“Allah is great!” cried he, as soon as words came to him. “It is known of all men I have taken no part in my cousin’s marriage; rather that I have always opposed it. Beware, said I, of the seductions of love. Avoid the strange woman upon whose face is written an evil fate. As long as I could I counselled him well, as I had promised his father. Now the Caliph’s commands must be obeyed, else we shall all lose our heads, which will not keep that of Abdul-asis on his shoulders.”

Thus spoke Ayub, discreet to the last. As long as he could shield the Emir he had done so loyally. Now that he must die he hastened to assist at his downfall.

The assassins came upon them as they sat together beneath a purple awning, drawn from tree to tree,—four naked Nubians, black as night, with four naked scimitars. So lightly fell their bare feet as they glided behind them, they looked like some hideous vision of the night.

Before the dawn of day, Abdul-asis and Egilona had risen, disturbed by the noise of the populace without. No one would tell them what it meant. While the Emir was preparing to go himself to the walls, to inquire if Egilona had returned from praying in a little chapel she had caused to be erected within the limits of the harem, their fate came to them. Together they fell under the cruel steel, together their bodies lay exposed upon the stones.

The dogs of the palace would have mangled them, but that some friendly hand gathered them up and interred them secretly in one of the many squares of the garden.

Where they lie, no one knows, or if it was the discreet Ayub who buried them. But as the time of the year comes round when they suffered, in the hour preceding dawn, stifled sighs and groans are heard in the angles of the walls, and a universal tremor runs through the space; although the outer air is still, a sudden tempest seems to rustle, the fan palms quiver as if shaken by unseen hands, the pale-leaved citrons bow their heads to a mysterious blast, clouds of white blossoms cover the earth like snow, and the leaves of the yellow jasmine fly as if with wings.

Then a clash of scimitars breaks the silence, the shadowy form of a stately lady floats across the pavement, closely followed by the figure of a Moor, who sighs and wrings his hands, gliding on into the thickness of the woods, when a dark cloud gathers and they disappear.

CHAPTER XI
The Moors at Cordoba

T Cordoba we come upon the full splendour of the Moors, a whole world of chivalry, jonglerie, magic, and song, from the old East, their home. What noble devotion to their race! What unalterable faith! What generous courage in life, and silent constancy in death! What knowledge, could we but grasp it!

We know but what is left to us of their outward life in Andalusia and Granada. Their exquisite sense of proportion and colour, in palaces vermilion walled and vocal with many waters; the massive grandeur of barbicans of defence, the sensuous charm of lace-covered chambers and gigantic leap of arch, tower, and minaret, destined to live as their mark for ever.

Their whole existence in Spain is a romance anomalous but dazzling; a nation within a nation, never amalgamated; a people without a country; a wave of the great Moslem invasion cast into Europe; a brilliant phantasmagoria, various and rare!

The Moors took no solid root in Spain as the

Saxons in England or the Arabs in Sicily, but lived as an exotic race, divided from the Christians and from the Jews by impassable barriers of religious customs and laws; their occupation but a long chivalric struggle for a foothold in the land they had gained but never conquered.

Not all the fiery valour of the African was proof against the obstinate resistance of the Goths. Never was defence more complete! In the midst of apparent victory loomed defeat!

A new era opens in Cordoba, with its million inhabitants and three hundred mosques, in the reign of the Caliph Abdurraman, of the race of the Ummaÿa, who overthrew the rival princes sent by the Sultan of Damascus.

After him from A.D. 756 to A.D. 1000, ten independent sultans reigned in Cordoba, their wealth and luxury like the record of a tale.

Most notable among these were three other Abdurramans, Hakin, surnamed “the bookworm,” Hisham, and Hazin, not to forget the great Sultan and statesman Almanzor, a Moorish Lorenzo de’ Medici, collecting books all over the world, and drawing learned men to his court even from remote Britain.

While the north, in perpetual warfare, was plunged in the darkness of the Middle Ages, solid learning, poetry, and elegant literature charmed the minds of the enlightened Moors, the pioneers of civilisation in Europe.

At Cordoba Averroës, the great Grecian scholar, translated and expounded Aristotle. Ben Zaid and Abdulmander wrote histories of the people at Malaga. Ibn el Baal searched the mountains and plains to perfect a knowledge of botany; the Jew Tudela was the successor of Galen and Hippocrates; Albucaris is remembered as a notable surgeon, some of whose operations coincide with modern practice; and Al Rasi and his school studied chemistry and rhetoric.

Not only at Cordoba, but at Seville, and later at Granada, colleges and schools were endowed, and libraries founded in which the higher sciences were taught, which drew the erudite of the Moslem world from all parts of the globe, and became the resort of Christian students anxious to instruct themselves in superior knowledge.

And Christian knights came also to perfect themselves in chivalric fashions and martial exercises, as well as to master the graceful evolutions of the “tilt of reeds” in the tourneys of the Moors.

From the court of the first Abdurraman came la gaya ciencia, poetic discussions of love and chivalry transplanted later to the Court of Provence.

In architecture no building that ever was erected can compare to the elegance of his Mesquita (come down to us almost entire) as a monument of the taste and culture of the age. The most mystic and astounding of temples, with innumerable aisles of double horseshoe arches, suspended like ribbons in mid-air, resting on pillars of jasper, pavonazzo, porphyry, and verd antique crossing and re-crossing each other in a giddy maze of immeasurable distances, red, yellow, green, and white dazzling the eye in a very rainbow of colour!

No windows are visible, and the light, weird and grim, comes as from a cave peopled by demons; no central space at all, but vistas of endless arcades, which for a time the eye follows assiduously, then turns confused, and the brain reels.

Deep hidden in the heart of the temple is the throne or macsurah, a marvel of embroidered stone, where the Sultan takes his seat. Here the Koran is read in the pale light of scented tapers and torches, and those ecstatic visions evoked by the Faithful of a sensual paradise of dark-haired houris.

Opposite is the Zeca, or holiest of holies, turned towards Mecca, where the gorgeous decorations of the East blend with Byzantine mosaics of vivid colours on a gold ground; a most lovely shrine, a great marble conch-shell for the roof, the sides dazzling with burnished gold, and round and round, deep in the pavement, the footprints of centuries of pilgrims.

Such is the Mesquita of Cordoba in our day, the desecrated shelter of an old faith, a sanctuary rifled, a mystery revealed!

But how glorious in the time of the great Abdurraman when the blaze of a thousand coloured lanterns, fed with perfumed oil, played like gems upon jewelled surfaces, vases, and censers filled with musk and attar, making the air heavy with fragrance, golden candelabra blazing among mosaics, crescent banners floating beside the almimbar or pulpit, where green-turbaned Almuedans mount to intone the Selan, as the Sultan emerges from a subterranean passage leading from the Alcazar, treading on Persian carpets sown with jewels, to take his place on a golden throne within the macsurah, surrounded by swarthy Africans, bare-armed Berbers, helmeted knights bristling with scimitars, Numidians with fringed head-bands and golden armlets, superb Emirs, wandering Kalenders, who live by magic, the dervish of the desert, and hoary Imaums in full gathered robes.

Then the talismanic words are heard from the open galleries of the Giralda from which the Muezzin calls to daily prayer: “There is no God but Allah, and Mahomet is his prophet.” To which the prostrate multitude echoes: “God is great,” each one striking the pavement with his forehead, and the sonorous chant answers, “Amen.”

When Abdurraman reigned, the lonely quarter beyond the Mesquita swarmed with Alcazars, Bazars, Cuartos, Zacatines, Baños, and Alamedas.

Three miles to the north, sheltered under the green heights of the Sierra Morena, rose the plaisance of Medina-a-Zehra, created by him, a congerie of kiosks and pavilions entered by gates of blue and yellow porcelain, overtopping woods of exotic shrubs, choice plants, and rare fruit-trees—here the Safary peach (nectarine) was first ripened in Europe—divided by the fountains, canals, and fish-ponds so dear to the Arab fancy; twelve statues in pure gold set with precious stones spouting perfumed water within a patio girt in by crystal pillars.

Hither came emirs, ambassadors, merchants, and pilgrims, all agreed that nothing could be compared to these matchless gardens. And besides Ez-Zahra there were other monuments, which have all disappeared under the mantle of green turf that lines the banks of the Guadalquivir. Not a stone left of the pavilion of Flowers, of Lovers, and of Content, the palace of the Diadem, evidently destined for the royal jewels, and another called after the city of Damascus.

About were many noble streets and plazas with baths and mosques, for next to the mosque stood the bath in credit among the Moslem, and as such despised by the Christians to that point, that after Ferdinand and Isabella drove the Moors out of Spain, their grandson, Philip II., ordered the destruction of all public baths as relics of Mohammedanism.

CHAPTER XII
Abdurraman, Sultan of Cordoba

BDURRAMAN, first Sultan of Cordoba, was a kindly hearted man, with none of the traditional cruelty of the Arab, eloquent in speech, and of a quick perception—quite the Caliph of Eastern tales. Never in repose, never entrusting the care of his kingdom to viziers, intrepid in battle, terrible in anger and intolerant of opposition; yet ready to follow the biers of his subjects, pray over the dead, and even to mount the pulpit of the mosque on Fridays and address the people.

His majestic presence and dark, commanding face, lit up by a pair of penetrating eyes, shadowed by thick black eyebrows, inspired fear rather than love in those around him, and though it was said of him “he never forgot a friend,” it was added, “nor ever forgave an enemy.”

As he passed at evening alone into the garden of Ez-Zahra, the porphyry, jasper, and marble of the pavement absorbed by the intense blue of the sky, all his attendants fell back. His brow was knit with thought, for the fame of the victories of Charles Martel troubled him sorely. He knew that in knowledge and science the Frankish king was as a peasant compared to him, yet his name was in all men’s mouths as the conqueror of the Moors.

Not only did Charles Martel, after the victory of Tours, excel him in renown, but the remnant of the Goths, driven out of the cities of Spain, had taken refuge in the mountains bordering the Bay of Biscay, among the caves and untrodden defiles of the Asturias, and, small and insignificant as they were, still defied him.

Just and generous in character, the Sultan would have gladly drawn to him this patriotic band by an equitable rule, if they would have submitted; but the obstinate endurance of the Spaniard was never more displayed than in the fierce determination of these fugitives never to yield.

Thinking of all this, Abdurraman heaved a deep sigh. His soul was full of sympathy for the brave Goths, but, as Sultan, he was bound to suppress what was in fact open rebellion.

Long did he pace slowly up and down, musing in a silence broken only by the distant click of the castanets from the quarter of the harem, where the light of coloured lanterns shone out athwart huge branches of magnolia and pepper trees.

That these sounds of revelry were not to his taste was shown by the disdainful glance he cast in that direction, and a certain gathering about him of the dark caftan which hung from his shoulders.

Turning his eyes in the direction of one of the many illuminated kiosks standing out clear in the twilight, he paused, as if expecting some one to appear.

Nor did he wait long; a dark figure emerged from the gloom, the features of the face so dusky that but for the general outline of the figure it might have passed unseen as a phantom of the night.

“Mahoun,” says the Caliph, sharply, as the vizier approached and, prostrating himself on the earth, awaited his commands, “stand up and tell me what tidings from the north.”

“By the Prophet, O Caliph,” answers Mahoun, crossing his arms as he rose to his feet, and bending his supple body in a deep salaam, “tidings of many colours—good and bad.”

“Give me the bad first, O Vizier! After a storm the sun’s rays shine brightest. Proceed.”

“Don Pelayo, the Goth, son of the Christian noble, Dux of Cantabria, murdered by his kinsman,” continued the vizier, “or, as some call him, Pelagius—for these Gothic dogs much affect Roman names—the leader of the Christians, has disappeared. Nor can the cunning inquiries of Kerim, whom in your wisdom you have placed as governor over these newly conquered provinces, obtain any record of where he has gone. Some say to the French Court to ask succour for the remnant who still cling to his fortunes; others that he has died by treachery, or fallen in fight. So constant were these rumours, O Caliph, that the Goths, discouraged by his long absence, had fallen into disunion; the wisest (and they are few) were willing to submit to the rule of Kerim; the greater part (fools) prepared to elect the Gothic Infanta Onesinda, his sister, as queen—when of a sudden, Pelayo himself returns, and, with a horde of Christian beggars at his back, raises the standard of revolt in Galicia near Gijon.”

“What!” cries the Caliph, suddenly interested, “is Pelayo the youth, cousin of Don Roderich, who fought at the battle of the Guadalete close to his chariot, and never left him until he himself vanished from the battlefield? I have heard of Pelayo. He is of royal birth.”

“The same, O Caliph. Grandson of King Chindavinto, his father, murdered by that unclean beast Witica, predecessor of Roderich. Pelayo ends the line of Gothic princes. Kerim despises him as a despicable barbarian shut up on a mountain, where his followers die of hunger; they have no food but herbs and honey gathered in the rocks. Let not my Lord regard him.”

“Call you this good news, O Mahoun? A hero is ever a hero, even in rags! Though he is my enemy, I respect his valour. Had Roderich fought with like courage in the defence of Spain, we might now be eating dates in our tents under our native palms. The courage of the chief represents the spirit of the nation, as the flash of the lightning precedes the thunderbolt. One cannot scathe without the other.”

“But, O Caliph of the Faithful,” interrupts the vizier, again prostrating himself to the ground, “the good news is yet untold. Pelayo’s sister, Onesinda, is now in our hands,—Kerim, the Governor of Gijon, has captured her.”

A smile of satisfaction overspread the Caliph’s face. Then, as other thoughts seemed to gather in his mind, he raised his hand and thoughtfully passed it across the thick black curls of his beard.

“Surely all courtesy has been used towards this royal lady? I would rather that Kerim had shown his skill in overcoming men. Do Mussulmen wage war on women and children? I know Kerim as a valiant leader in the fight, but I misdoubt much his courtesy towards this daughter of the Goths. Are we not well-founded enough in Spain to spare this lady?”

“Yes, confined within the strong walls of your harem. Make her your sultana, O Caliph, she will be free, and, subdued by the wisdom of your lips, will bring her countrymen with her; otherwise she is too important a hostage to surrender. For his sister’s sake Pelayo himself may yield.”

“Never, if I know him,” exclaims Abdurraman, “while the fountain of life flows within his veins—never! Dishonour not the noble Goth so far. To turn a Christian maiden into a slave would be honour, for a Gothic princess a sore degradation. Mahoun, I want no sultana to share my throne. ‘Beware of the wiles of women,’ saith the sage. By the help of the Prophet, I will still steer clear. But that this noble lady shall have cause to extol the courtesy of the Moslem is my command.”

“How then shall we deal with her?” asks the vizier with anxious haste, too well aware of the generous nature of the Caliph. “If Pelayo lays down his arms, the Infanta might be escorted back in safety to the rocks and caverns he makes his home, but if he still raises the standard of revolt, a bow-string would better suit the lady’s throat.”

“Silence, slave,” replies Abdurraman in a deep voice. “Great Allah! Shall we degrade ourselves to make success depend on the life of a woman? Summon her here at once. When she arrives in Cordoba, let her immediately be conducted to my harem. Let orders be given for her immediate departure from Gijon with suitable attendants.”

“Oh, justest of men and greatest of rulers,” answers the vizier, “permit your slave yet to speak one word. These infidels must be reached through their women. Leave, I pray you, Onesinda to the Governor of Gijon, and she will be bait to catch her brother Pelayo.”

“I have spoken,” answers Abdurraman, haughtily, and turned away. “Be it according to my commands.”

Deep was the obeisance with which this order was received, but the astute vizier had views of his own. In the main he was a faithful servant of his lord, but where a woman was concerned, he deemed it no crime to temper obedience with interest. An unbeliever! the sister of a Goth! what was this Onesinda but a toy, a slave, honoured by a glance from her conqueror? Had the Caliph commanded her immediate execution he would willingly have obeyed, but to bring her to Cordoba after what he knew of her treatment at Gijon was more than his head was worth.

Now it so happened that the Governor of Gijon was his friend, and that Mahoun knew much more about Onesinda than he intended to impart. Her capture had been a cruel stratagem, and at this very time she was forcibly lodged in the harem of Kerim.

The vizier had not dared altogether to conceal the important fact of her capture from the Sultan, but that she should reach Cordoba alive and tell the tale of her misfortunes, was not at all his intention. The passion Kerim had conceived for her was well known to Mahoun, and that she was surrounded by Moorish slaves, who not only urged his suit by threats and persuasion, but watched her every action. If Onesinda did not yield to the desires of Kerim, her brother’s fate was certain, were he taken dead or alive.

On Pelayo rested the hope of the fugitive Goths. The last of the long line of hereditary princes, all the trust of the conquered lay in him. That this base intrigue should come to the knowledge of the

Caliph was death to all concerned. Not all the bribes offered him by Kerim in rich stuffs, jewels, and slaves, could blind the astute vizier to the danger of his position.

“May Allah confound Kerim and his harem!” he exclaimed in a rage, as he paced the gardens after the Sultan’s departure until late into the night, his silken sandals falling lightly on the coloured patterns drawn upon the walks. “Why could not the dark-skinned beauties of Barbary content him without meddling with the pale-faced Goth? Truly the flag of the Crescent has triumphed over the Cross in the length and breadth of Spain; but it is not wise to provoke a fallen people. These Goths have the endurance of the camel of the desert, which lives long without food or drink, but even that patient animal will turn upon his driver if he rains down blows upon him causelessly. Better let the infidels starve in holes and caverns than bring them down into the plains, bent on a desperate revenge. A curse on Kerim! The Sultan forgets nothing. He will ask for Onesinda. What in the name of Allah am I to reply?”

CHAPTER XIII
Onesinda and Kerim

ERIM-EL-NOZIER, the Governor of Gijon in Galicia, is a Berber, infinitely less cultured than the Moors, and the distance from the capital at Cordoba has made him almost independent of all rule.

Little did the noble-minded Caliph, Abdurraman, guess what was passing at this moment in the remote peninsula at Gijon, sheltered on one side by the dark hill of Santa Catalina, on the other exposed to the full force of the rollers of the Bay of Biscay, and that the governor he had appointed was a tyrant who knew no law but his own will.

Kerim is not a warrior to please a lady’s eye. The voluminous folds of a white turban rest on a forehead bare of hair, a rough and matted beard curls on his chin and reaches to his ears, in which hang two uncut emeralds. He is low in stature and corpulent in person. His long dark arms are bare, ornamented with glittering bangles, his body swathed with a gaudily striped cloth over a rich vest, and full trousers descend to his feet. Sudden and abrupt in his movements, he sits uneasily on a raised dais covered with skins, a drapery of Eastern silk over his head. A strong perfume of attar pervades the recess, lined with divans, at the extremity of an immense Gothic hall, open at the opposite end, and divided into separate apartments by Oriental screens and tapestry.

The recent conquests in the North had given the Moors as yet no time to erect either dwellings, mosques, or baths, those necessities of Eastern life, and they were fain to accept the rough habitations and castles of the Goths as they found them.

Terrible is the expression of his eyes, the white against the tawny sockets, as he turns them full on the slender form before him, wrapped in an embroidered mantle, held in the strong grasp of a Nubian slave. A naked scimitar lies on the ground and the shadow of a mute darkens the curtained entrance.

Of the lady’s face nothing is seen. She holds her hands clasped over her eyes, as if to shut out the repellent visage of the Berber.

Taking in his hand, from a salver placed on the ground, one of the jewelled goblets which lay on it, and filling it with sherbet, Kerim rises to his feet.

“I drink,” he says, in a loud jarring voice, “to the success of the Goths and of Pelayo. Will you pledge me, Christian lady?”

No answer comes from the veiled figure, but the trembling of the drapery shows that she is convulsed with fear.

“Unhand the Infanta,” says Kerim to the Nubian, “and retire.”

Between them lay the scimitar, catching the light.

“Onesinda,” and Kerim seizes her passive hand, “listen! Kerim is not the senseless tyrant you deem him. But before I unfold my projects to your ear, I warn you to take heed. You are my prisoner, held by the right of war. A motion of my hand and that fair skin is dyed as crimson as the petals of the fiery pomegranate expanding in the heat of noon. As yet you have refused all speech with me. Urge me not too far, I warn you.”

“Alas!” answers Onesinda, speaking with quick breath, as she tears asunder the drapery which falls upon her face, and displays an ashy countenance belying her bold words, “I do not fear death, but infamy. Now, God be gracious to me, for the succour of man is vain.” As she spoke she drew herself back to the farthest limit of the curtained space in an attitude, not of resistance, for that was useless, but as one unwilling to provoke assault, yet if offered, resolved to repel it to the utmost of her power.

She who, were her brother dead, would be proclaimed by the small remnant of her people Queen of the Goths, was fair as became her race and of good proportions. A native loftiness in features and bearing took from her all notion of the insipidity which attaches itself to that complexion; her eyes were blue, untouched by the unnatural glitter so loved by the Moorish women, and her profuse flaxen hair fell in ringlets about her neck, on which a solid gold chain and heavy medallion rested. A kirtle over a vest, open at the throat, of blue taffetas worked in coloured silks, formed a loose robe lined with fur, and a veil of silk, falling at the back of her neck, concealed the snowy skin of her neck and bosom and served as a covering to her hair.

“You have no reason to fear me,” cries Kerim, but the base passion which looked out of his eyes gave to his words a very different interpretation.

“There can be no peace between us,” answers Onesinda, trembling in every limb, as she presses closer and closer to the wooden pillars at her back. “Had your purpose been honest, you would not have captured me treacherously and kept me here. Pelayo’s sister will never yield to force. To plant that steel in my breast,” pointing to the richly set dagger he wore at his waist, “is the only service you can do me.”

“But you must listen,” retorts Kerim, drawing so near his hot breath fell on her cheek; “for the sake of Pelayo. To further the good of this growing kingdom of the Moors, I desire to ally myself with the royal blood of Spain and rally about me those Christians who still gather round your brother. The throne of Cordoba is too distant, the empire too vast. Abdurraman needs able lieutenants. Kerim will free him of these northern provinces and govern them himself. It is a feeble mind which waits for Fortune’s wheel, the brave must seize it, and turn it for themselves. Under me the sons of the Goths shall serve, Alonso and Friula and the rest, Pelayo above all, next to myself, for the fair Onesinda’s sake! Again I ask you, Christian Princess, will you pledge me to our success?” And his hand again seizes the goblet, which he holds to her lips.

Had Onesinda seen the look which accompanied this gesture she would have sunk insensible to the earth, so revolting was the effect of love in such a form, so savage and brutal the nature; but her head had fallen on her bosom, and her closed eyes and deadly pallor disconcerted Kerim, who, with widely opened eyes, contemplated his victim in doubt if she were not already dead. A slight trembling of the eyelids and a convulsive motion about the lips relieved him of this fear. With the utmost care he placed her on a divan, and pouring into her white lips some of the sherbet contained in the goblet, anxiously watched the efforts which Nature made to revive her. As she heaved a deep sigh, she opened her eyes, then closed them again with a shrill cry at the sight of the black visage of Kerim bent over her.

“Listen,” he says again, in a much gentler voice. He understood that excessive fear or a too great repugnance would be fatal, therefore he curbed his passion.

“If you will consent to be my sultana, Pelayo

shall be my second in the kingdom of the Asturias. If not”—and, spite of himself, such a look of ferocity came over his face that Onesinda shrank from him with inexpressible disgust—“the blood of every knight I have taken shall water the earth of Gijon, specially that of Pelayo, who shall expire in unknown torments. Choose, Christian, between life with me, or certain ruin to your race.”

As he awaits her answer, Kerim seats himself by her side. With a smile on his dark face he strove to take her hand. In this gentler mood, he seemed to Onesinda a thousand times more loathsome than in his fiercest moments.

One glance was enough. Gathering her robes about her, she darts to the farthest extremity of the vast hall.

“Moor,” she cries, and the horror she felt was expressed in her features, “for me death has no terrors. For my brother, I do not believe you. Can the eagle nest with the vulture? the dove with the serpent? It is but a cruel wile to deceive me.”

“I swear it, lady, by the tomb of the Prophet. Think well before you take your own life and that of those who are dear to you.” He paused, and the unhappy Onesinda felt all the agony of her position. To allow this hideous African to approach her was to her a fate so horrible that flesh and blood rose up in revolt against it. To open the possible chance of success to Pelayo and his followers by the sacrifice of herself is, as a daughter of the Goths, her duty, did she believe his words to be sincere.

Looking into his dark face, what assurance had she? In his cruel eyes? In those full red lips, cutting like blood athwart the blackness of his beard? It is the countenance of a savage. Not a generous quality could dwell under such a mask. No, there is nothing in the hard nature of this African on which to form a hope! And yet her brother’s life, if he speaks truly, hangs on his will. She had no means to prove his words. Pelayo is absent, some said already dead. Was this dark treachery towards his Sultan true? Or rather is it not some fiendish scheme to entrap the last remnant of the Goths and raise himself to power and favour with Abdurraman?

Bursting into a flood of tears, she casts herself upon the ground and fixes on him her pale blue eyes.

“Alas! you know not the heart of woman to make such a proposal. To invoke your pity,” and her voice trembles, “would be as useless as it is mean. Help the noble sons of the land, but insist not on such a sacrifice. By the memory of your father, by the bones of your chiefs, seek not an end so wicked.”

Unmoved, Kerim contemplates her, a smile of triumph on his dark face.

“It is your turn now to supplicate, proud Infanta, mine to deny. Either you comply, or every Moslem soldier in the citadel of Gijon shall hunt the Goths in the length and breadth of the Asturias like vermin. Reflect ere you decide. I swear by the Holy Caaba I speak truth.”

With a menacing gesture he departed, leaving Onesinda prostrate on the ground and the Moorish slaves returned to bear her into the dark grove where the harem stood fronting the ever-beating sea that washes the iron-bound coast which girds the north of Spain.

CHAPTER XIV
Tragic Death of Onesinda

HE Plaza of Gijon swarms with a motley crowd. The news of some great event to take place has spread abroad and brought down peasants from the distant mountain-tops, clad in primitive coverings of skins, and the thick-set natives of Galicia from their groves of wide-branching oaks and thick copse wood, too often stained with blood in the fierce encounters between Moslem and Christian.

Townsmen there are, in coarse hempen garments, and artificers from the lowly dwellings of Gijon, mixed with mounted groups of naked Nubians, as black as night; Bedouins carrying long lances and wattled shields; Berbers and Kurds on foot among the crowd, casting looks of defiance on the sons of the soil, easily recognised by the fairness of their faces and long auburn hair, grouped about native musicians singing wild melodies to the click of the castanets; Moorish knights in the light armour which contrasts so favourably with the heavy accoutrements of the West—an indistinguishable rabble of the conquered and the conquerors, remarkable for nothing but the contentious and sullen spirit in which the Moslem ousts the Christian at all points.

In the centre of the plaza rises a gaudy pavilion formed of sheets of the brightest silk, scarlet, yellow, blue, and orange, the tent-poles and pillars glittering with tiny flags, before which the astounding clamour of bands of Eastern musicians raise martial echoes. Within, visible through the partially withdrawn curtains, is placed a throne with such magnificence as the limited means permit.

Planted in front the standard of Kerim floats heavily in the breeze, this Arab of the desert pretending to no distinction but the Star and the Crescent, the emblems of his faith. Horsemen and foot-soldiers are ranged on either side, and banners and pennons are displayed by each Moorish knight or captain before his own tent, dazzling with the flash of splendid accoutrements and gorgeous display of brocade and tossing plumes, fluttering to the sound of drums, trumpets, and shrill-voiced pipes, recalling to the Arabs the deserts of their home.

A mass of dismounted cavalry is stationed before the pavilion on which all eyes are turned, each Moslem erect by the side of his gaily draped charger, until, at a shrill cry, surmounting even the din of the music, each man vaults into the saddle and spurs forward towards a cloud of dust announcing the arrival of Kerim surrounded by his Ethiopian bodyguard.

At full gallop they approach, bristling with spears and brandishing their scimitars, disposing themselves in a semicircle which leaves Kerim alone, so resplendent with steel, feathers, and gems that, as the sun shines down upon him, he looks like a statue of light.

The grim forms and wild faces of the Africans, tossing their arms in every direction with savage shouts, reining up their horses but a hair’s-breadth from the edge of the crowd of spectators—who, uttering piercing screams, rush backwards upon those behind, who in their turn lift up their voices in screams of utmost terror—create such a scene of noise and confusion that a white silk litter borne by slaves, round whose arms and legs are bound rich bangles and bracelets, followed by a crowd of veiled women in snowy garments, is scarcely noticed.

Yet a group of dark-robed Goths have marked it, and the sadness of their faces and their looks of shame and sorrow show how abhorrent to them is this Eastern pageant and its cause. For who has not guessed the occasion of these rejoicings? Onesinda, for the sake of her people, has consented to become the bride of Kerim.

Nor is she and her countrymen around her, to whom, through the light lattice of the litter, she is plainly visible, without hope that Pelayo, if yet alive, may have planned a rescue. But in the face of such an array of forces, called out purposely by Kerim, it would be a mad and senseless sacrifice of life.

The agony of mind of Onesinda is not to be described. Did he indeed appear, what would Pelayo think of her? Would he understand the amount of the sacrifice? To become a vile and nameless thing? To submit to this crowning outrage of the Moor, with no power to whisper into his ear the sacredness of her motive?

Alas! poor Onesinda, she is of too gentle a nature to battle with such a fate! So colourless has she become, her face is scarcely visible among the silken cushions of the litter as she breathlessly scans the assembled crowd.

A wild hope seizes her. May not Alonso or Friula, if Pelayo is away, be present? Some valiant ally or devoted follower still faithful to her? Some pitying Goth with a soul for her distress? At least one by his look to remind her that he is there?

Nothing! She sees the threatening faces of the Moors, she hears their muttered curses, she beholds their contemptuous gestures as they point at her. Do they believe she is a willing victim?

And now Kerim has dismounted from his charger; a tall white turban is set upon his head, crowned with a spiral diadem, in which a ruby crescent blazes, surrounded by drops of pearls; a white robe, sown with jewels, clothes his limbs, held up by a golden sash worked with gems, in which the blade of a small dagger rests, incrusted with precious stones, of so fine a temper one touch is sufficient to cut the thread of life.

Followed by his guards, he follows the litter towards the pavilion, surrounded by a phalanx of sheikhs and alcaides. And as he approaches the litter the drapery is drawn aside, the clash of discordant music strikes up, and the voice of the Imaum chants Allah Akbar.

The moment is come; Onesinda must descend. A look of mingled triumph and love lights up Kerim’s swarthy face and brings out the whiteness of his eyes into a revolting prominence. Already his naked arms, glittering with bracelets, are stretched out to clasp his bride, already the soft aroma of her presence comes wafting to his senses like spicy perfumes of paradise, when, by a deft and sudden movement, breaking from the strong arms which bear her up, Onesinda seizes the dagger which lies beneath his sash and with desperate courage plunges it in her breast.

With frantic haste Kerim tears it from the wound, but her life-blood follows it. Clasping her in his arms, he gazes on her face. Has death come to her instantly? Her eyes are closed, yet a faint flush is still upon her cheek. Then the lids slowly rise, but the orbs are fixed, and glazed. Gradually the flush vanishes and gives place to the pallid hue of death!

Ere the poor remains of the Gothic maiden can be borne away, a great clattering of horses’ feet is heard advancing; a Moslem herald gallops forward, followed by trumpeters and men-at-arms, and several knights, who ride into the plaza. After a flourish of trumpets and due recital and summoning of Kerim, Governor of Gijon, to listen, he is commanded, in the name of the redoubtable Sultan Abdurraman, to appear without delay at Cordoba, together with his Christian captive, Onesinda, sister of the royal Goth, known as Pelayo, Dux of Cantabria.

CHAPTER XV
Pelayo Proclaimed King by the Goths

O those who have not visited the north of Spain, the grandeur of the dark chain of the Asturian mountains rising sheer out of the plains of Leon and Lugo can hardly be imagined. The change is so abrupt, the aspect so dark and threatening of frowning defiles, deeply scored precipices, and pointed summits heavy with mist. Here winter lingers into latest spring and the tardy summer soon retreats before the grey and deathlike hue which clothes the rocks and narrows inch by inch with the green mantle which sunshine brings.

This is the true Iberia, the cradle of the race, the title borne by the eldest born of Spain, the stronghold which has held out last against all conquerors. The Romans left their mark at Gijon; in the south the Moors stamped the soil with their lineaments; in the east, Catalonia formed a separate kingdom, with laws and customs; Navarre, with its ancient line of kings, raised Alpine barriers. But the mountain crests are free, and those deep cavernous recesses which cut the rocks resound only to the shrill cry of the eagle or the bleat of the wild deer.

Full in the front of a stupendous face of rock, facing east, the mouth of a deep cave opens; the narrow track which leads to it ends here, Nature herself forbids further progress. Piles, avalanches rather, of black boulders, the spittle and waste of mountains shaken by earthquakes in bygone ages, have fallen from above, and, smoothed by time to dull surfaces of greys and greens, guard its opening, shrouded by a feathery veil of thorn, ivy, and wild trailing plants which love the shade.

From within the cave a transparent rivulet murmurs forth in a bed of coloured pebbles to meet the sun and join its feeble ripple to the louder sound of other waters flowing from the gorge above.

In front the grass spreads soft and verdant; cups of the early crocuses peep out, lilac and white, and dark purple violets nestle under dry leaves, filling the air with fragrance. A few scraggy beech-trees turn their white trunks outwards, the roots deeply imbedded in the rocks, and clumps of low firs and juniper follow the almost imperceptible track which leads onwards to remoter glens.

Slowly mounting from below, a little band of Goths, clad in the homespun jerkins which distinguish them at once from their gaudily attired conquerors, ascend the path, stepping from rock to rock. The dry leaves of winter rustle beneath their feet as they pass up under the gnarled boughs of scraggy oaks.

Carefully the foremost ones plant their steps upon the stones, as they bear upon a crossed frame the body of Onesinda, which the Christians of Gijon secured in the confusion following her death and the arrival of the herald summoning Kerim to Cordoba.

A dark pall covers her, and so slight and fragile is her form that the outline of her figure scarcely raises the folds.

Behind appears the stalwart figure of Pelayo, wearing the Gothic cap of steel and armed with the simple accoutrements of a Dacian warrior.

Not a tear moistens his eye. His face is set and white, marked by the vicissitudes and hardships of his life; a countenance on which Nature has set her seal as a leader of men—the sole remaining link of the early Gothic kings.

Behind him follow three other chiefs, who have joined in an eternal hatred to the Moor, Friula, Teudis, and Recesvinto.

A sorrowful procession, fitly set in the impenetrable wilds which surround them, solemn as themselves, who want no spur to their resolve to sell their blood dear in the cause of their country. But if they did, surely the slight form they are bearing, so cruelly sacrificed to the Moor, is enough to stir up their souls to never-ending vengeance.

Silently the bearers rest the bier upon the green platform of grass before the cave.

Then Pelayo advances to the front, and putting back with his hands the thickly trailing thorns that impede the opening, the bier is placed within under the shadows of an overlapping stone.

Not a word has been spoken, but many streams murmur as they go bubbling in the sun, and the splash of the distant waterfalls answers, and the sighing of the wind passes with hollow sound. Only the shrill cry of an eagle catches the ear as it swoops upon its prey, unconscious of the presence of man.

By a common instinct the Gothic chiefs gather before the cave, the lofty figure of Pelayo towering above them all. These men represent a nation conquered, fugitive, helpless, but still a nation which will never die, but live to bring forth long lines of kings in succeeding centuries to rule over two hemispheres.

They know it, these Gothic chiefs, the prophecy is in them—a solemn faith in the justice of their cause, which tells them the hordes of unbelievers shall not prevail.

And as they wait, by other paths, invisible to the eye but known to the fugitives, emerge the dark forms of other brothers-in-arms, who now join the group.

Every eye seeks Pelayo, by whose invincible courage, wisdom, and endurance this small remnant has been saved. Every eye seeks his as he stands aside leaning against a rock, insensible, as it seems, to all but his own affliction.

Then Friula, nearest in kinship to the royal line, speaks:

“The time is come, brothers, that we must choose a chief. Long has the noble Pelayo led us. He has now another vengeance to fulfil. The moment is opportune. Onesinda is dead. The butcher Kerim has been summoned to Cordoba. The garrison of Gijon lacks a defender. Let him lead us there as king.”

“As king,” comes ringing from every side of the shrouded summits, which catch the words and bear them from hollow, spanless depths to wild, yawning gorges among the black cliffs, down which green waters pour from the gloomy precincts of the cave where rest the remains of Onesinda.

“Let him be king!” sounds in many tones like a chant of freedom, intoned by these Asturian wilds, which never had felt the foot of mortal foe.

As the voices die away amid a thousand echoes, Pelayo turns and raises his steel helmet, showing the careworn lines of his deeply wrinkled face lit up by no gleam of triumph. Ere he speaks he raises his hand, and points to the deep shadow of the cave.

“We are in the presence of the dead. The shade of Onesinda yet lingers in that body she died to save. Before her corpse, speak softly. Let the dead rest in peace.”

“Then in her presence let us crown him!” cries Friula, taking up the word. “For her sake let the vengeance of the Goths not tarry.”

“We are but as a handful against a nation,” says Recesvinto, “numberless as the sands of the desert; but we will fight for Pelayo and for Spain.”

“For Pelayo and for Spain!” again thunders round. Even the tiny streamlet which cleaves the grass they stand on seems to snatch the words, and goes dancing downwards, bearing them to the world.

“My friends and brothers,” cries Pelayo, rousing himself from the cloud of sorrow into which the death of his sister has plunged him, “I accept your trust. We have been together in many a hard-fought day since the rout of the Guadalete sent us to these wilds. It is no crown I crave, even were it the glorious iron circlet which bound the brows of Alaric, but to lead you in danger and in toil. For this I will be your king. God willing, I will cut off the Moors to the depth of my hatred, root and branch. They shall learn to curse the day when Pelayo was proclaimed. At the cave of Cavadonga a new nation commences, which, with God’s help, shall exceed the old. In the name of Onesinda we will triumph.”

A burst of joyful enthusiasm follows this address. He speaks with a dignity and confidence which inspires his followers with the reckless courage he feels within his breast.

The Gothic chiefs gather round him as the sheep round the faithful shepherd when the howl of the wolf is borne upon the wind. No lack of valour is visible upon their dark brows, and looks of deadly defiance shoot from eye to eye as they hasten to bind the shields they carry together, place Pelayo on them, and bear him three times round the face of the cave of Cavadonga, the rest following with bare heads and naked swords.

The Moslems of Gijon, when they heard that the fugitive Goths had elected a king in the Asturian mountains, laughed with scorn. But he soon made his presence felt by frequent incursions, causing great havoc among the Moors.

At length he collected a sufficient force to meet them in a pitched battle. The great victory of Caincas followed, and ere the eighteen years were passed during which Pelayo ruled over the Goths, the garrison of Gijon surrendered, and El Conde de Gijon was one of the titles he bore upon his shield.

In the solitude of the Asturias the cave of Cavadonga is still to be found; the very spot or campo before it on which Pelayo was carried on the shields of his followers, is somewhat vulgarised by a commemorative obelisk erected by the Duc de Montpensier. The valley, a perfect cul-de-sac, ascends abruptly to the site. Pelayo lies within the small church of Saint Eulalia, near at hand at Abaima. A simple stone is engraved with his name and a carved sword of Roman pattern.

It was he who dealt the first serious blow to the invaders. From that time they grew cautious in their approaches to the north.

Again the Goths became a name in the old kingdom. At Oviedo, south of Gijon, the new dynasty took root, concealed at first in the obscure reigns of Friula, Orelio, Ramiro, and Ordoño, calling themselves Kings of Galicia and Oviedo, up to Alonso the Second, surnamed “the Chaste,” 791, when Leon came to be both the court and capital of the kingdom of the Goths.

CHAPTER XVI
Bernardo del Carpio

HE city of Leon is a very ancient place, old even in the days of the Romans. Around it circles the line of walls spared by Witica when he levelled the defences throughout Spain.

It is entered by four gates opening into four wide streets, crossing each other at right angles. Many have been the changes, but there still stand the city walls, substantially the same, the huge stones worked into coarse rubble, capped by frequent towers with tapia turrets from which the eye ranges over the leafy plains of mountain-bound Galicia.

The houses are low-roofed and homely, as befits the rough climate of the north; the streets narrow and grey. Red-brown and sepia is the colouring against the sky, with whiffs of chill air from the mountains and the scent of fields and flowers, the shelter of green thickets and verdant banks, sown with tall poplars, beside purling streams.

A homelike and pleasant place, despised by the Moors after the African fantasies of the south, but absolute luxury to the Spaniards, as so much larger and nobler than their late capital, Oviedo.

Alonso, surnamed “the Chaste,” second of that name, passing to the conclusion of a long and prosperous reign, finds much that is congenial to his monkish prejudices and austere life in the simplicity of the nature around.

That Alonso’s habits are more of a friar than of a king may be explained by the aspect of the times. As successor to the pious “Il Diacono,” and as a protest against Mauregato, his kinsman, who, for the assistance given him by the Moors, agreed to pay them what is often mentioned in history as the “Maiden Tribute,” a hundred Christian maidens to be sent to the Caliph at Cordoba for his harem, fifty rich and fifty poor, a shameful agreement faithfully fulfilled until the reign of Ramiro in 866.

This specially develops in Alonso a sentiment of religious protest in the form of a rigid chastity, not only enforced in his own person, but in all those about him. As he grows older these ideas take more and more hold upon him, and increase to such a degree as actually to pervert his judgment. Obviously it is the interest of the Church to encourage them, and for this reason he seeks his companions among priests and monks.

What care his subjects that Alonso is called “the Chaste,” or that his wife, Queen Berta, lives like a nun? The royal claims to sanctity are utterly thrown away upon a sarcastic, laughter-loving court, especially as Doña Ximena, his sister, a buxom dame, with the fair amplitude of her Gothic ancestors, has so far strayed from the fold as to become the mother of a boy!

Imagine the scandal! She is promptly ordered off to a cloister for life, and her lover, the heroic Conde de Saldaña, imprisoned in the castle of Luna, where, more gothicum, he is deprived of sight; Alonso fasting, and scourging himself until nature well-nigh gives way, and Berta, the Queen, bathed in tears, doing nothing but confess, although she has nothing to say except that she has lived in company with such a sinner as Ximena!

But the boy thrives apace, a very lusty and proper child, with no notion of dying or care as to who are his parents, provided he has enough to eat and playmates to amuse him, horses to ride and dogs to follow him about the court, where, with singular inconsistency, Alonso allows him to remain and bear the name of Bernardo del Carpio.

Not that he is acknowledged by the king—heaven forfend! Though one of those secrets known to every one, Bernardo himself was never told how he came into the world, but accepted himself in ignorance as one standing alone, not in arrogance and pride, but out of the simplicity of his heart, which prompted him to be second to none, seeing that he had already given good proofs of his valour in tilts and tourneys and in continual encounters with the Moors, pressing hard on the little Christian kingdom, so narrow against the sea.

It is a gusty morning in the month of June; a mass of black clouds rides up from the west, portending a coming storm. Distant thunder rumbles between snatches of fitful sunshine, lighting up the inner court of the royal palace where the Roman prefects once ruled—a plain edifice, built of stone, with open arcades running round supported by pilasters of coarsely grained marble.

In and out there is an air of unusual bustle and movement. Sturdy Goths are hurrying to and fro, their long, unkempt hair hanging on their shoulders, and others of a slighter mould, in outlandish draperies and white turbans, whose finer features betray an Eastern origin; for, as was often the case, African captives in battle gladly accepted, as slaves, the more peaceful service of the Christians, when no necessity was imposed on them of fighting their Moslem brethren.

In the countenances of all there is a look of surprise as they hurry by, carrying such golden utensils as served for the celebration of the Mass, jewelled cups, golden patens, embroidered cushions, and rich folds of arras and tapestry worked in Algerian looms, with which the chapel walls are decorated on high occasions of state.

A master of the ceremonies, or Jefe, bearing an ivory wand, stands in the centre of the court directing the servants. His flat Castilian cap of a bright colour, and dark manto lined with fur, sharp aquiline features and piercing eyes proclaim him a native-born Spaniard of the old type.

“Is it that foreign palmer,” he mutters between his teeth, “arrived from Navarre, or that Gallic knight who flies the fleur-de-lis with such heavy armour and delicate forms of speech? I warrant me he is a hypocrite to the core, as he comes from the Frankish king. One or both, they have bewitched our master. The palmer, with his sandalled feet and cockle-shell, an ill-favoured fellow one scents a mile off, dirt being, I am told, a quality next to holiness—but I like it not, the odour of garlic is strong enough for me—is shut up with my lord in his private closet. Anyway, the king has encountered the foul fiend somewhere, that he is tempted to risk his crown. Now they have been singing a laudamus in the chapel for the safe arrival of the French king, whom the devil confound as a stranger and an invader! Well-a-day! The Holy Virgin of Saragossa help us! We can die but once! Here, Poilo, Poilo!” he shouts at the top of his voice, to a rough, wolfish-looking dog which has precipitated itself with an angry growl and clenched teeth into the arcade.

“Fie upon you for an ill-mannered brute. Leave the king’s guests alone.”

Doffing his scarlet cap, the Jefe at once assumes the humble aspect of his condition, as two personages, evidently of importance, emerge from the arcade, taking no notice of his repeated low salutations or of the snarls of the dog which he now holds by a silver collar, as they walk up and down the court in eager conversation.

“Was the like ever heard?” exclaims one of them, a tall figure of martial aspect, attired in a rich robe trimmed at neck and shoulder with miniver, and secured on the breast with a huge gold brooch.

“Let Alonso forfeit his crown if he please,” is the answer, “but I will never consent to cut my own throat.”

“Nor I, Favila,” replies the other, a younger man, who holds the office of Chamberlain, wearing a heavy gold chain about his neck, his slight figure set off by a coquettishness in the fashion of the time—a close-fitting tunic of dark green, with a hood attached reaching to his waist, and a plume fixed by a jewel in a small cap poised on one ear.

“I, for one, will stoutly defend my castle and shake off all allegiance to Alonso. I would rather join the Moors, treacherous as they are and ready to pounce on us at every corner, than submit to an inroad of new enemies to overrun the land we have rescued with so much blood. Bad enough to have Charlemagne for a neighbour, without bringing him here to rule over us with the king’s leave. They say he and his paladins are already on the march. Why cannot the king be content to name his sister’s son his successor? Whom will he find better than the son of Saldaña and a royal infanta? I love Bernardo with all my heart.”

“That Alonso will never do,” rejoins the older man, “in face of his obstinate refusal to admit the legality of the marriage of Doña Ximena to the Count of Saldaña. They say he has destroyed the documents, and that Bernardo can never prove himself his father’s son.”

“He has no notion of trying,” answers Don Ricardo, “as far as I can see. He is strangely indifferent to name and position.”

“But is the reason of the king’s strange perversity known?” asked Don Favila.

“In part it is. First there is in his head this maggot of chastity.”

“He will not find that virtue among the Gallic monks he is so fond of harbouring,” Don Favila observes, twirling his black moustache. “Of all the hoary sinners——”

“No matter,” interrupts Don Ricardo, “that is not to the point. You question me of the reason—if he has any tangible one and is not mad—that Alonso treats Bernardo as he does. Chastity in the first place. The propagation of his royal race offends him. He glories in the name of ‘the Chaste.’ He would have all his family the same.”

“Fool,” mutters Don Favila, but he offers no further interruption.

“Doña Ximena, his only sister, was destined to

become the Abbess of the great Convent of San Marcos, outside the gate of Leon, which he is building. So averse to love is he himself——”

“Then why in the foul fiend’s name did he marry Queen Berta?” puts in the younger man, evidently of an impatient temperament, but Don Ricardo passes the question by as irrelevant and proceeds:

“When he found that the Infanta preferred a mortal to an immortal spouse, and had actually gone the length of bearing him a child, he fell into such a state of blind rage that he declared she had never married, and shut her up with such rigour that she died.”

“By Santiago, a most barbarous act,” is the response; “but saints are always cruel.”

“About as barbarous,” answers Don Ricardo, “as calling in to inherit the Gothic throne a foreigner, Charlemagne, a Frank, to whom he offers the succession, when his own sister’s child is beside him branded with infamy.”

“If this is the Church’s teaching, I would fain be a Mussulman. What will Bernardo say when he hears of it?”

“Who speaks of me?” cries a clear young voice, coming from a more distant part of the patio where an arched gateway led out into the place of arms in which the Spanish knights and soldiers exercised themselves. A knight’s chain and spurs of gold show out from under a manto of dark velvet, which he throws on the ground, and which is instantly, with every sign of reverence, picked up by the Jefe, with difficulty holding Poilo back, who with sharp, quick barks and yells of delight seeks to precipitate itself on the young knight, much too preoccupied to observe it, save that with a quick wave of the hand he dismisses both the dog and the Jefe.

Bernardo’s somewhat short and sturdy figure is clothed in linked mail which rattles as he hastens forward to join Favila and Ricardo, at the moment that a louder and nearer clap of thunder is audible and a deeper shadow falls.

“Favila, Ricardo, you have heard this cursed news? I see it in your faces. By the blood of Saint Isidore, is the king distraught that he disposes of the kingdom of Leon as though he were a churl chaffering away his field? Can it be true? I am just come from the mountains, where I have met with sport both of men and beasts, for the Moor Kirza has planted himself at Selagon, and sends out detachments to the foot of the Asturias. Tell me, friends, can it be true?”

Both bow their heads.

“We will never submit,” said Favila, “to the Frankish king. Many are already gone from the court to place their castles in a state of defence.”

“What!” exclaims Bernardo, whose cheeks are flushing scarlet and the veins in his forehead swelling with growing passion. “What! give away the whole kingdom of Leon, with its warriors and nobles, to a foreigner, as if we were a flock of sheep? I am of no illustrious race myself”—at these words a significant look passes between his two companions, who turn their eyes on the ground. “Faith! I know not of what race I am,” with a short laugh, “nor do I care while the king continues his favour to me, but I am a Spaniard; I will sell my living to no man.”

“The king has no heir,” observes Favila, in a dry tone, raising curious eyes on Bernardo. “He says he desires to settle the succession before his death.”

“True,” answers Ricardo, “no legal heir,” and he, in his turn, shot a significant glance at Bernardo, who does not in the least observe it. “He may fear that some one of his blood might take his place that he would not approve.”

“Sir, you speak in riddles,” cries Bernardo, cutting in. “Who is there that the king fears will step into his place? Marry for me I know not, nor do I care. Confusion to his surname of ‘the Chaste,’ if Alonso brings in Charlemagne and his paladins into the hard-won land that the noble Pelayo wrested from the Moor. By the memory of the cave of Cavadonga and the sacred oath our ancestors swore among the savage rocks of the Asturias” (at these words, Bernardo raises his steel cap from his head, and stands with open brow and glistening eyes full in the glory of the fitful sunshine), “I pledge myself never to sheathe my unworthy sword until every invader, be he enemy or friend, Frank, Berber, or Moor, be driven out of the limits of Leon. I swear it,” he adds in a deep tone, laying his right hand on his breast, where, on a laced front of velvet, was embroidered the cognizance he had received from the king. “You are witnesses, my friends?” At which Don Favila and Don Ricardo incline their heads, and Bernardo replaces the helmet on his head from which floated a sombre plume, then adding, with a light laugh, “Let Alonso play the anchorite if he will, but all of us are not blest with his virtues.”

“Mock not, profane youth, the saintly name of our master. There is no danger that your virtues will reach the height of his excellency. His pure soul lives more in heaven than on earth,” says the voice of an older man, an ancient Jefe much honoured by the king, advancing to join the group, which has moved, in the energy of talk, higher up towards the stone border of a fountain which rises from the base of a Roman statue overgrown with moss and weeds.

“Your challenge, Bernardo, comes too late. Charlemagne is already near the Pyrenees, with all his knights and vassals, the renowned Roland among them; they will soon touch the soil of Leon, to accept the inheritance our gracious king has given him. Once arrived in Leon, you dare not, presumptuous boy, who judge your betters by yourself, draw your sword upon the guest of Alonso.”

“He shall never be his guest,” shouts Bernardo, fire flashing from his eyes; “neither Charlemagne nor his peers, his knights or paladins, Roland and the rest shall set their feet in Leon. I, Bernardo del Carpio, will bar the way.” A laugh of derision comes from the old chamberlain, at what he considers such madness. Even Favila and Ricardo smile, so vain it seems that this youth could stay the advance of the greatest monarch in Christendom.

“You laugh!” cries Bernardo, turning fiercely round, his glittering eyes aglow. “You deem I boast? Be it so. Time will show. I speak not of Divine help, Santiago on his milk-white charger armed cap-à-pie in radiant steel interposing, or other monkish tales. If deeds are the language of the brave, words lie with fools. Was it with words Pelayo revenged his sister’s death and raised the Gothic standard against the great Abdurraman? Excuse me, good sir,” he adds, breaking off suddenly, the inspired look passing from his countenance as he addresses the older man, whose sarcastic countenance is still sharpened to a sneer—“if I who am so young, speak my mind. I go to the king to remonstrate.”

“You would do better to forbear,” hastily interrupts the old courtier. “The king is at his devotions, assisted by a learned monk lately arrived from Navarre.”

“I care not, though the air breed monks as thick as flies; you stay me not, Sir Chamberlain.”

CHAPTER XVII
King Alonso

ERNARDO hastily passed the court with swift, straight strides, his form in shadow defined against the light. A heavy peal of thunder sounded overhead as he turned to the right, where a marble stair, with a sculptured balustrade, guarded by soldiers, led to the royal apartments on the first floor, under a flat roof.

“ ‘Tis indeed a foul shame,” said Don Favila, looking after him, as he and his companions took shelter under the arcade from the now thickly falling rain, “that our king, who loves him well, does not grant him the honours of his birth and name him his successor. He guesses not who he is. You noted his words?” turning to Ricardo, who nodded.

“What! a bastard!” exclaimed the aged chamberlain; “a braggart and a bastard, instead of the victorious Charlemagne? Good gentlemen, you are distraught. Would you have a sovereign, the pureness of whose life will pass as an example in all time, forget so far his principles as to countenance his sister’s shame? The king, my master, has done right to protect his kingdom from such reproach.”

Meanwhile Bernardo passes the alguazils who knew him well, his mailed feet resounding on the marble floor as step by step he reaches a door before which a heavy panel of tapestry is displayed, bearing a royal crown, and beneath, the arms of Leon and Oviedo, bound by an inscription in old Gothic letters.

The first chamber, lined with wooden wainscot and a groined oaken roof, is bare of other furniture, save some rudely carved benches, on which meanly attired attendants sit or lounge.

These Bernardo passes with a hasty salute, which they respectfully return, then on into another and another chamber floored with coloured Moorish tiles, into the last, a hugely proportioned hall, the carved roof supported by lofty pillars. This hall, through the window of which the lightning plays, though void of furniture, is far more ornate than the rest, seeing that at the farther end, on a raised platform, surmounted by a dusty canopy, is a throne, on which a royal chair is placed, used on such rare occasions as when Alonso receives his compañeros and knights in state.

Nothing can exceed the neglect of this primitive apartment, now seen in the deep shadow of the coming storm. Trophies of early Gothic armour are fixed on hangings of once embroidered damask; but so little care has been taken that the nails have given way, the tapestry has fallen, and the mortar which knit together the solid blocks of stone is visible.

Before the throne stands a long wooden table, on which rests a rich enamelled crucifix, set with jewels, and huge candelabra of silver, holding waxen torches such as are used in churches to light up the shrines of saints, a rude attempt at splendour which leaves the rest more bare. Seats there are with time-stained leather coverings, and a royal chair inlaid with ivory, as was also the curiously formed footstool. Two low doors open in a recess behind the throne into two opposite turrets, one leading to the private apartments of the king, who lives alone—Queen Berta being relegated to a distant part of the palace, which formed three sides of a square, fronting the cathedral, where there is an array of delicately carved saints and martyrs niched round the deep curves of three arched portals under two turreted towers;—the other door opening into a small chapel, where King Alonso, kneeling on the bare stones, passes a great part of the day and often of the night, in ecstatic prayer and meditation.

Not for a moment did Bernardo hesitate. As he knocked on the oaken panels interspersed with heavy nails, which opened to the chapel, the latch yielded to his hand, and he entered as a blinding flash of lightning gleamed bright and strong and the thunder broke loudly overhead. An instant after, all had darkened into so profound a gloom