University of Virginia Library

THE LEGEND OF DON RODERICK.

1. CHAPTER I.

Spain, or Iberia, as it was called in ancient
days, has been a country harassed from the
earliest times, by the invader. The Celts, the
Greeks, the Phenecians, the Carthagenians, by
turns, or simultaneously, infringed its territories; [1]

drove the native Iberians from their rightful
homes, and established colonies and founded
cities in the land. It subsequently fell into the
all grasping power of Rome, remaining for some
time a subjugated province; and when that gigantic
empire crumbled into pieces, the Suevi,
the Alani, and the Vandals, those barbarians of
the north, overran and ravaged this devoted
country, and portioned out the soil among them.

Their sway was not of long duration. In
the fifth century the Goths, who were then the
allies of Rome, undertook the reconquest of Iberia,
and succeeded, after a desperate struggle of three
years duration. They drove before them the
barbarous hordes, their predecessors, intermarried,
and incorporated themselves with the original
inhabitants, and founded a powerful and
splendid empire, comprising the Iberian peninsula,
the ancient Narbonnaise, afterwards called
Gallia Gotica, or Gothic Gaul, and a part of the
African coast called Tingitania. A new nation
was, in a manner, produced by this mixture of
the Goths and Iberians. Sprang from a union
of warrior races, reared and nurtured amidst the
din of arms, the Gothic Spaniards, if they may
so be termed, were a warlike, unquiet, yet high
minded and heroic people. Their simple and
abstemious habits, their contempt for toil and
suffering, and their love of daring enterprise,

fitted them for a soldier's life. So addicted were
they to war that, when they had no external foes
to contend with, they fought with one another;
and, when engaged in battle, says an old chronicler,
the very thunders and lightnings of
heaven could not separate them.[2]

For two centuries and a half the Gothic power
remained unshaken, and the sceptre was wielded
by twenty-five successive kings. The crown
was elective, in a council of palatines, composed
of the bishops and nobles, who, while they swore
allegiance to the newly made sovereign, bound
him by a reciprocal oath to be faithful to his
trust. Their choice was made from among the
people, subject only to one condition, that the
king should be of pure Gothic blood. But though
the crown was elective in principle, it gradually
became hereditary from usage, and the power of
the sovereign grew to be almost absolute. The
king was commander in chief of the armies; the
whole patronage of the kingdom was in his
hands; he summoned and dissolved the national
councils; he made and revoked laws according
to his pleasure; and, having ecclesiastical supremacy,
he exercised a sway even over the consciences
of his subjects.

The Goths, at the time of their inroad, were
stout adherents to the Arian doctrines; but after
a time they embraced the Catholic faith, which
was maintained by the native Spaniards free
from many of the gross superstitions of the
church at Rome, and this unity of faith contributed
more than any thing else to blend and
harmonize the two races into one. The bishops
and other clergy were exemplary in their lives,
and aided to promote the influence of the laws
and maintain the authority of the state. The
fruits of regular and secure government were
manifest in the advancement of agriculture, commerce
and the peaceful arts; and in the increase
of wealth, of luxury, and refinement; but there
was a gradual decline of the simple, hardy, and
warlike habits that had distinguished the nation
in its semi barbarous days.

Such was the state of Spain when, in the year
of Redemption 701, Witiza was elected to the
Gothic throne. The beginning of his reign gave
promise of happy days to Spain. He redressed
grievances, moderated the tributes of his subjects,
and conducted himself with mingled mildness
and energy in the administration of the
laws. In a little while, however, he threw off
the mask, and showed himself in his true nature,
cruel and luxurious.

Two of his relatives, sons of a preceding king,

awakened his jealousy for the security of his
throne. One of them, named Favila, duke of
Cantabria, he put to death, and would have inflicted
the same fate upon his son Pelayo, but
that the youth was beyond his reach, being preserved
by Providence for the future salvation of
Spain. The other object of his suspicion was
Theodofredo, who lived retired from court. The
violence of Witiza reached him even in his retirement.
His eyes were put out, and he was
immured within a castle at Cordova. Roderick,
the youthful son of Theodofredo, escaped to
Italy, where he received protection from the
Romans.

Witiza now considering himself secure upon
the throne, gave the reins to his licentious passions,
and soon, by his tyranny and sensuality,
acquired the appellation of Witiza the Wicked.
Despising the old Gothic continence, and yielding
to the example of the sect of Mahomet,
which suited his lascivious temperament, he indulged
in a plurality of wives and concubines,
encouraging his subjects to do the same. Nay,
he even sought to gain the sanction of the church
to his excesses, promulgating a law by which
the clergy were released from their vows of celibacy,
and permitted to marry and to entertain
paramours.

The sovereign Pontiff Constantine threatened

to depose and excommunicate him, unless he
abrogated this licentious law; but Witiza set him
at defiance, threatening, like his Gothic predecessor
Alaric, to assail the eternal city with his
troops, and make spoil of her accumulated treasures.
[3] “We will adorn our damsels,” said he,
“with the jewels of Rome, and replenish our
coffers from the mint of St. Peter.”

Some of the clergy opposed themselves to the
innovating spirit of the monarch, and endeavoured
from the pulpits to rally the people to
the pure doctrines of their faith; but they were
deposed from their sacred office, and banished
as seditious mischief makers. The church of
Toledo continued refractory; the archbishop
Sindaredo, it is true, was disposed to accommodate
himself to the corruptions of the times,
but the prebendaries battled intrepidly against
the new laws of the monarch, and stood manfully
in defence of their vows of chastity. “Since
the church of Toledo will not yield itself to our
will,” said Witiza, “it shall have two husbands.”
So saying, he appointed his own brother Oppas,
at that time archbishop of Seville, to take a
seat with Sindaredo in the episcopal chair of
Toledo, and made him primate of Spain. He

was a priest after his own heart, and seconded
him in all his profligate abuses.

It was in vain the denunciations of the church
were fulminated from the chair of St. Peter;
Witiza threw off all allegiance to the Roman
Pontiff, threatening with pain of death those who
should obey the papal mandates. “We will
suffer no foreign ecclesiastic, with triple crown,”
said he, “to domineer over our dominions.”

The Jews had been banished from the country
during the preceding reign, but Witiza permitted
them to return, and even bestowed upon their
synagogues privileges of which he had despoiled
the churches. The children of Israel, when
scattered throughout the earth by the fall of Jerusalem,
had carried with them into other lands
the gainful arcana of traffic, and were especially
noted as opulent money changers and curious
dealers in gold and silver and precious stones;
on this occasion, therefore, they were enabled, it
is said, to repay the monarch for his protection
by bags of money, and caskets of sparkling gems,
the rich product of their oriental commerce.

The kingdom at this time enjoyed external
peace, but there were symptoms of internal
discontent. Witiza took the alarm; he remembered
the ancient turbulence of the nation, and
its proneness to internal feuds. Issuing secret
orders, therefore, in all directions, he dismantled

most of the cities, and demolished the castles
and fortresses that might serve as rallying
points for the factious. He disarmed the
people also, and converted the weapons of war
into the implements of peace. It seemed, in
fact, as if the millenium were dawning upon the
land, for the sword was beaten into a ploughshare,
and the spear into a pruning-hook.

While thus the ancient martial fire of the nation
was extinguished, its morals likewise were
corrupted. The altars were abandoned, the
churches closed, wide disorder and sensuality
prevailed throughout the land, so that, according
to the old chroniclers, within the compass of a
few short years, “Witiza the Wicked taught all
Spain to sin.”

2. CHAPTER II.

Woe to the ruler who founds his hope of sway
on the weakness or corruption of the people.
The very measures taken by Witiza to perpetuate
his power ensured his downfall. While
the whole nation, under his licentious rule, was
sinking into vice and effeminacy, and the arm of
war was unstrung, the youthful Roderick, son of
Theodofredo, was training up for action in the
stern but wholesome school of adversity. He
instructed himself in the use of arms; became
adroit and vigorous by varied exercises; learned
to despise all danger, and inured himself to hunger
and watchfulness and the rigour of the seasons.

His merits and misfortunes procured him many
friends among the Romans; and when, being
arrived at a fitting age, he undertook to revenge
the wrongs of his father and his kindred, a host
of brave and hardy soldiers flocked to his standard.
With these he made his sudden appearance
in Spain. The friends of his house and the disaffected
of all classes hastened to join him, and

he advanced rapidly and without opposition,
through an unarmed and enervated land.

Witiza saw too late the evil he had brought
upon himself. He made a hasty levy, and took
the field with a scantily equipped and undisciplined
host, but was easily routed and made prisoner,
and the whole kingdom submitted to Don
Roderick.

The ancient city of Toledo, the royal residence
of the Gothic kings, was the scene of high festivity
and solemn ceremonial on the coronation of
the victor. Whether he was elected to the throne
according to the Gothic usage, or seized it by the
right of conquest, is a matter of dispute among
historians, but all agree that the nation submitted
cheerfully to his sway, and looked forward to
prosperity and happiness under their newly elevated
monarch. His appearance and character
seemed to justify the anticipation. He was in
the splendour of youth, and of a majestic presence.
His soul was bold and daring, and
elevated by lofty desires. He had a sagacity
that penetrated the thoughts of men, and a magnificent
spirit that won all hearts. Such is the picture
which ancient writers give of Don Roderick,
when, with all the stern and simple virtues unimpaired,
which he had acquired in adversity and
exile, and flushed with the triumph of a pious
revenge, he ascended the Gothic throne.

Prosperity, however, is the real touchstone of
the human heart; no sooner did Roderick find
himself in possession of the crown, than the love
of power, and the jealousy of rule were awakened
in his breast. His first measure was against
Witiza, who was brought in chains into his presence.
Roderick beheld the captive monarch
with an unpitying eye, remembering only his
wrongs and cruelties to his father. “Let the
evils he has inflicted on others be visited upon
his own head,” said he; “As he did unto Theodofredo,
even so be it done unto him.” So the
eyes of Witiza were put out, and he was thrown
into the same dungeon at Cordova in which
Theodofredo had languished. There he passed
the brief remnant of his days in perpetual darkness,
a prey to wretchedness and remorse.

Roderick now cast an uneasy and suspicious
eye upon Evan and Siseburto, the two sons of
Witiza. Fearful lest they should foment some
secret rebellion, he banished them the kingdom.
They took refuge in the Spanish dominions in
Africa, where they were received and harboured
by Requila, governor of Tangier, out of gratitude
for favours which he had received from their late
father. There they remained, to brood over
their fallen fortunes, and to aid in working out
the future woes of Spain.

Their uncle Oppas, bishop of Seville, who had

been made co-partner, by Witiza, in the archepiscopal
chair at Toledo, would have likewise
fallen under the suspicion of the king; but he
was a man of consummate art, and vast exterior
sanctity, and won upon the good graces of the
monarch. He was suffered, therefore, to retain
his sacred office at Seville; but the see of Toledo
was given in charge to the venerable Urbino;
and the law of Witiza was revoked that dispensed
the clergy from their vows of celibacy.

The jealousy of Roderick for the security of
his crown was soon again aroused, and his measures
were prompt and severe. Having been
informed that the governors of certain castles
and fortresses in Castile and Andalusia had conspired
against him, he caused them to be put to
death and their strong holds to be demolished.
He now went on to imitate the pernicious policy
of his predecessor, throwing down walls and
towers, disarming the people, and thus incapacitating
them from rebellion. A few cities were
permitted to retain their fortifications, but these
were intrusted to alcaydes in whom he had
especial confidence; the greater part of the
kingdom was left defenceless; the nobles, who
had been roused to temporary manhood during
the recent stir of war, sunk back into the inglorious
state of inaction which had disgraced them
during the reign of Witiza, passing their time

in feasting and dancing to the sound of loose and
wanton minstrelsy.[4] It was scarcely possible
to recognize in these idle wassailers and soft
voluptuaries the descendants of the stern and
frugal warriors of the frozen north; who had
braved flood and mountain, and heat and cold,
and had battled their way to empire across half
a world in arms.

They surrounded their youthful monarch, it is
true, with a blaze of military pomp. Nothing
could surpass the splendour of their arms, which
were embossed and enamelled, and enriched
with gold and jewels and curious devices; nothing
could be more gallant and glorious than
their array; it was all plume and banner and
silken pageantry, the gorgeous trappings for tilt
and tourney and courtly revel; but the iron soul
of war was wanting.

How rare it is to learn wisdom from the misfortunes
of others. With the fate of Witiza full
before his eyes, Don Roderick indulged in the
same pernicious errors, and was doomed, in like
manner, to prepare the way for his own perdition.

3. CHAPTER III.

As yet the heart of Roderick, occupied by the
struggles of his early life, by warlike enterprises
and by the inquietudes of newly gotten power,
had been insensible to the charms of women;
but in the present voluptuous calm, the amorous
propensities of his nature assumed their sway.
There are divers accounts of the youthful beauty
who first found favour in his eyes, and was elevated
by him to the throne. We follow in our
legend the details of an Arabian Chronicler,[5]
authenticated by a Spanish poet.[6] Let those
who dispute our facts, produce better authority
for their contradiction.

Among the few fortified places that had not
been dismantled by Don Roderick, was the ancient
city of Denia, situated on the Mediterranean
coast, and defended on a rock built castle
that overlooked the sea.

The Alcayde of the castle, with many of the
people of Denia, was one day on his knees in
the chapel, imploring the Virgin to allay a tempest
which was strewing the coast with wrecks,
when a centinel brought word that a Moorish
cruiser was standing for the land. The Alcayde
gave orders to ring the alarm bells, light signal
fires on the hill tops, and rouse the country, for
the coast was subject to cruel maraudings from
the Barbary cruisers.

In a little while the horsemen of the neighbourhood
were seen pricking along the beach, armed
with such weapons as they could find, and the
Alcayde and his scanty garrison descended from
the hill. In the mean time the Moorish bark came
rolling and pitching towards the land. As it
drew near, the rich carving and gilding with
which it was decorated, its silken bandaroles
and banks of crimson oars, showed it to be no
warlike vessel, but a sumptuous galiot destined
for state and ceremony. It bore the marks of
the tempest; the masts were broken, the oars
shattered, and fragments of snowy sails and
silken awnings were fluttering in the blast.

As the galiot grounded upon the sand, the impatient
rabble rushed into the surf to capture
and make spoil; but were awed into admiration
and respect by the appearance of the illustrious
company on board. There were Moors of both

sexes sumptuously arrayed, and adorned with
precious jewels, bearing the demeanour of persons
of lofty rank. Among them shone conspicuous
a youthful beauty, magnificently attired, to whom
all seemed to pay reverence.

Several of the Moors surrounded her with
drawn swords, threatening death to any that
approached; others sprang from the bark, and
throwing themselves on their knees before the
Alcayde, implored him, by his honour and courtesy
as a knight, to protect a royal virgin from
injury and insult.

“You behold before you,” said they, “the only
daughter of the king of Algiers, the betrothed
bride of the son of the king of Tunis. We were
conducting her to the court of her expecting
bridegroom, when a tempest drove us from our
course, and compelled us to take refuge on your
coast. Be not more cruel than the tempest, but
deal nobly with that which even sea and storm
have spared.”

The Alcayde listened to their prayers. He
conducted the princess and her train to the castle,
where every honour due to her rank was
paid her. Some of her ancient attendants interceded
for her liberation, promising countless
sums to be paid by her father for her ransom;
but the Alcayde turned a deaf ear to all
their golden offers. “She is a royal captive,”

said he, “it belongs to my sovereign alone to
dispose of her.” After she had reposed, therefore,
for some days at the castle, and recovered
from the fatigue and terror of the seas, he caused
her to be conducted, with all her train, in magnificent
state to the court of Don Roderick.

The beautiful Elyata[7] entered Toledo more
like a triumphant sovereign than a captive. A
chosen band of christian horsemen, splendidly
armed, appeared to wait upon her as a mere
guard of honour. She was surrounded by the
Moorish damsels of her train, and followed by
her own moslem guards, all attired with the
magnificence that had been intended to grace
her arrival at the court of Tunis. The princess
was arrayed in bridal robes, woven in the most
costly looms of the orient; her diadem sparkled
with diamonds, and was decorated with the
rarest plumes of the bird of paradise, and even
the silken trappings of her palfry, which swept
the ground, were covered with pearls and precious
stones. As this brilliant cavalcade crossed
the bridge of the Tagus, all Toledo poured
forth to behold it, and nothing was heard throughout
the city but praises of the wonderful beauty
of the princess of Algiers. King Roderick came
forth, attended by the chivalry of his court, to

receive the royal captive. His recent voluptuous
life had disposed him for tender and amorous
affections, and at the first sight of the beautiful
Elyata he was enraptured with her charms.
Seeing her face clouded with sorrow and anxiety,
he soothed her with gentle and courteous
words, and conducting her to a royal palace,
“behold,” said he, “thy habitation, where no one
shall molest thee: consider thyself at home in
the mansion of thy father, and dispose of any
thing according to thy will.”

Here the princess passed her time, with the
female attendants who had accompanied her
from Algiers; and no one but the king was permitted
to visit her, who daily became more and
more enamoured of his lovely captive, and sought
by tender assiduity, to gain her affections. The
distress of the princess at her captivity was
soothed by this gentle treatment. She was of
an age when sorrow cannot long hold sway over
the heart. Accompanied by her youthful attendants,
she ranged the spacious apartments of
the palace, and sported among the groves and
alleys of its garden. Every day the remembrance
of the paternal home grew less and less
painful, and the king became more and more
amiable in her eyes, and when, at length, he
offered to share his heart and throne with her,

she listened with downcast looks and kindling
blushes, but with an air of resignation.

One obstacle remained to the complete fruition
of the monarch's wishes, and this was the religion
of the princess. Roderick forthwith employed
the archbishop of Toledo to instruct the
beautiful Elyata in the mysteries of the christian
faith. The female intellect is quick in perceiving
the merits of new doctrines; the archbishop,
therefore, soon succeeded in converting, not
merely the princess, but most of her attendants,
and a day was appointed for their public baptism.
The ceremony was performed with great
pomp and solemnity, in the presence of all the
nobility and chivalry of the court. The princess
and her damsels, clad in white, walked on foot
to the cathedral, while numerous beautiful children,
arrayed as angels, strewed their path with
flowers; and the archbishop meeting them at the
portal, received them, as it were, into the bosom
of the church. The princess abandoned her
Moorish appellation of Elyata, and was baptised
by the name of Exilona, by which she was
thenceforth called, and has generally been known
in history.

The nuptials of Roderick and the beautiful
convert took place shortly afterwards, and were
celebrated with great magnificence. There were
jousts, and tourneys, and banquets, and other

rejoicings, which lasted twenty days and were
attended by the principal nobles from all parts
of Spain. After these were over, such of the
attendants of the princess as refused to embrace
christianity and desired to return to Africa, were
dismissed with munificent presents; and an embassy
was sent to the king of Algiers, to inform
him of the nuptials of his daughter, and to proffer
him the friendship of King Roderick.[8]

4. CHAPTER IV.

For a time Don Roderick lived happily with
his young and beautiful queen, and Toledo was
the seat of festivity and splendour. The principal
nobles throughout the kingdom repaired to
his court to pay him homage, and to receive his
commands; and none were more devoted in
their reverence than those who were obnoxious
to suspicion from their connexion with the late
king.

Among the foremost of these was Count Julian,
a man destined to be infamously renowned in
the dark story of his country's woes. He was of
one of the proudest Gothic families, lord of Consuegra
and Algeziras, and connected by marriage
with Witiza and the Bishop Oppas; his
wife, the Countess Frandina, being their sister.
In consequence of this connexion, and of his own
merits, he had enjoyed the highest dignities and
commands, being one of the Espatorios, or royal
sword-bearers; an office of the greatest confi

dence about the person of the sovereign.[9] He
had, moreover, been entrusted with the military
government of the Spanish possessions on the
African coast of the strait, which at that time
were threatened by the Arabs of the East, the
followers of Mahomet, who were advancing their
victorious standard to the extremity of Western
Africa. Count Julian established his seat of
government at Ceuta, the frontier bulwark and
one of the far-famed gates of the Mediterranean
Sea. Here he boldly faced, and held in check,
the torrent of moslem invasion.

Don Julian was a man of an active, but irregular
genius, and a grasping ambition; he had a
love for power and grandeur, in which he was
joined by his haughty countess; and they could
ill brook the downfall of their house as threatened
by the fate of Witiza. They had hastened, therefore,
to pay their court to the newly elevated
monarch, and to assure him of their fidelity to
his interests.

Roderick was readily persuaded of the sincerity
of Count Julian; he was aware of his merits
as a soldier and a governor and continued him

in his important command: honouring him with
many other marks of implicit confidence. Count
Julian sought to confirm this confidence by every
proof of devotion. It was a custom among the
Goths to rear many of the children of the most
illustrious families in the royal household. They
served as pages to the king, and handmaids and
ladies of honour to the queen, and were instructed
in all manner of accomplishments befitting their
gentle blood. When about to depart for Ceuta,
to resume his command, Don Julian brought his
daughter Florinda to present her to the sovereigns.
She was a beautiful virgin that had not
as yet attained to womanhood. “I confide her to
your protection,” said he to the king, “to be unto
her as a father; and to have her trained in the
paths of virtue. I can leave with you no dearer
pledge of my loyalty.”

King Roderick received the timid and blushing
maiden into his paternal care; promising to
watch over her happiness with a parent's eye,
and that she should be enrolled among the most
cherished attendants of the queen. With this
assurance of the welfare of his child, Count Julian
departed, well pleased, for his government at
Ceuta.

5. CHAPTER V.

The beautiful daughter of Count Julian was
received with great favour by the Queen Exilona
and admitted among the noble damsels that
attended upon her person. Here she lived in
honour and apparent security, and surrounded by
innocent delights. To gratify his queen, Don
Roderick had built for her rural recreation a
palace without the walls of Toledo, on the banks
of the Tagus. It stood in the midst of a garden,
adorned after the luxurious style of the East.
The air was perfumed by fragrant shrubs and
flowers; the groves resounded with the song of
the nightingale, while the gush of fountains and
water-falls, and the distant murmur of the Tagus,
made it a delightful retreat during the sultry days
of summer. The charm of perfect privacy also
reigned throughout the place, for the garden
walls were high, and numerous guards kept
watch without to protect it from all intrusion.

In this delicious abode, more befitting an oriental
voluptuary than a Gothic king, Don Roderick

was accustomed to while away much of that time
which should have been devoted to the toilsome
cares of government. The very security and
peace which he had produced throughout his
dominions by his precautions to abolish the means
and habitudes of war, had effected a disastrous
change in his character. The hardy and heroic
qualities which had conducted him to the throne,
were softened in the lap of indulgence. Surrounded
by the pleasures of an idle and effeminate
court, and beguiled by the example of his
degenerate nobles, he gave way to a fatal sensuality
that had lain dormant in his nature during
the virtuous days of his adversity. The mere
love of female beauty had first enamoured him
of Exilona, and the same passion, fostered by
voluptuous idleness, now betrayed him into the
commission of an act fatal to himself and Spain.
The following is the story of his error as gathered
from an old chronicle and legend.

In a remote part of the palace was an apartment
devoted to the queen. It was like an eastern
harem, shut up from the foot of man, and
where the king himself but rarely entered. It
had its own courts, and gardens, and fountains,
where the queen was wont to recreate herself
with her damsels, as she had been accustomed
to do in the jealous privacy of her father's palace.

One sultry day, the king, instead of taking his

siesta, or mid-day slumber, repaired to this
apartment to seek the society of the queen. In
passing through a small oratory, he was drawn
by the sound of female voices to a casement over-hung
with myrtles and jessamines. It looked
into an interior garden or court, set out with
orange trees, in the midst of which was a marble
fountain, surrounded by a grassy bank, enamelled
with flowers.

It was the high noontide of a summer day,
when, in sultry Spain, the landscape trembles to
the eye, and all nature seeks repose, except the
grasshopper, that pipes his lulling note to the
herdsman as he sleeps beneath the shade.

Around the fountain were several of the damsels
of the queen, who, confident of the sacred
privacy of the place, were yielding in that cool
retreat to the indulgence prompted by the season
and the hour. Some lay asleep on the flowery
bank; others sat on the margin of the fountain,
talking and laughing, as they bathed their feet in
its limpid waters, and King Roderick beheld
delicate limbs shining through the wave, that
might rival the marble in whiteness.

Among the damsels was one who had come
from the Barbary coast with the queen. Her
complexion had the dark tinge of Mauritanea,
but it was clear and transparent, and the deep
rich rose blushed through the lovely brown.

Her eyes were black and full of fire, and flashed
from under long silken eyelashes.

A sportive contest arose among the maidens,
as to the comparative beauty of the Spanish and
Moorish forms; but the Mauritanian damsel revealed
limbs of voluptuous symmetry that seemed
to defy all rivalry.

The Spanish beauties were on the point of
giving up the contest, when they bethought themselves
of the young Florinda, the daughter of
Count Julian, who lay on the grassy bank, abandoned
to a summer slumber. The soft glow of
youth and health mantled on her cheek; her
fringed eyelashes scarcely covered their sleeping
orbs; her moist and ruby lips were lightly
parted, just revealing a gleam of her ivory teeth,
while her innocent bosom rose and fell beneath
her boddice, like the gentle swelling and sinking
of a tranquil sea. There was a breathing tenderness
and beauty in the sleeping virgin, that
seemed to send forth sweetness like the flowers
around her.

“Behold,” cried her companions exultingly,
“the champion of Spanish beauty!”

In their playful eagerness they half disrobed
the innocent Florinda before she was aware.
She awoke in time, however, to escape from their
busy hands; but enough of her charms had been
revealed to convince the monarch that they were

not to be rivalled by the rarest beauties of Mauritanea.

From this day the heart of Roderick was inflamed
with a fatal passion. He gazed on the
beautiful Florinda with fervid desire, and sought
to read in her looks whether there was levity or
wantonness in her bosom; but the eye of the
damsel ever sunk beneath his gaze, and remained
bent on the earth in virgin modesty.

It was in vain he called to mind the sacred
trust reposed in him by Count Julian, and the
promise he had given to watch over his daughter
with paternal care; his heart was vitiated by
sensual indulgence, and the consciousness of
power had rendered him selfish in his gratifications.

Being one evening in the garden where the
queen was diverting herself with her damsels,
and coming to the fountain where he had beheld
the innocent maidens at their sport, he could no
longer restrain the passion that raged within his
breast. Seating himself beside the fountain, he
called Florinda to him to draw forth a thorn
which had pierced his hand. The maiden knelt
at his feet, to examine his hand, and the touch of
her slender fingers thrilled through his veins.
As she knelt, too, her amber locks fell in rich
ringlets about her beautiful head, her innocent
bosom palpitated beneath the crimson boddice,

and her timid blushes increased the effulgence of
her charms.

Having examined the monarch's hand in vain,
she looked up in his face with artless perplexity.

“Senior,” said she, “I can find no thorn, nor
any sign of wound.”

Don Roderick grasped her hand and pressed
it to his heart. “It is here, lovely Florinda!”
said he, “It is here! and thou alone canst pluck
it forth!”

“My lord!” exclaimed the blushing and astonished
maiden.

“Florinda!” said Don Roderick, “dost thou
love me?”

“Senior,” said she, “my father taught me to
love and reverence you. He confided me to
your care as one who would be as a parent to
me, when he should be far distant, serving your
majesty with life and loyalty. May God incline
your majesty ever to protect me as a father.”
So saying, the maiden dropped her eyes to the
ground, and continued kneeling: but her countenance
had become deadly pale, and as she knelt
she trembled.

“Florinda,” said the king, “either thou dost
not, or thou wilt not understand me. I would
have thee love me, not as a father, nor as a monarch,
but as one who adores thee. Why dost
thou start? No one shall know our loves; and,

moreover, the love of a monarch inflicts no degradation
like the love of a common man—riches
and honours attend upon it. I will advance thee
to rank and dignity, and place thee above the
proudest females of my court. Thy father, too,
shall be more exalted and endowed than any
noble in my realm.”

The soft eye of Florinda kindled at these
words. “Senior,” said she, “the line I spring
from can receive no dignity by means so vile;
and my father would rather die than purchase
rank and power by the dishonour of his child.
But I see,” continued she, “that your majesty
speaks in this manner only to try me. You may
have thought me light and simple, and unworthy
to attend upon the queen. I pray your majesty
to pardon me, that I have taken your pleasantry
in such serious part.”

In this way the agitated maiden sought to
evade the addresses of the monarch, but still her
cheek was blanched, and her lip quivered as she
spake.

The king pressed her hand to his lips with fervour.
“May ruin seize me,” cried he, “if I
speak to prove thee. My heart, my kingdom,
are at thy command. Only be mine, and thou
shalt rule absolute mistress of myself and my
domains.”

The damsel rose from the earth where she

had hitherto knelt, and her whole countenance
glowed with virtuous indignation. “My lord,”
said she, “I am your subject, and in your power;
take my life if it be your pleasure, but nothing
shall tempt me to commit a crime which would
be treason to the queen, disgrace to my father,
agony to my mother, and perdition to myself.”
With these words she left the garden, and the
king, for the moment, was too much awed by her
indignant virtue to oppose her departure.

We shall pass briefly over the succeeding
events of the story of Florinda, about which so
much has been said and sung by chronicler and
bard: for the sober page of history should be
carefully chastened from all scenes that might
inflame a wanton imagination; leaving them to
poems and romances, and such like highly seasoned
works of fantasy and recreation.

Let it suffice to say, that Don Roderick pursued
his suit to the beautiful Florinda, his passion
being more and more inflamed by the resistance
of the virtuous damsel. At length, forgetting
what was due to helpless beauty, to his own
honour as a knight, and his word as a sovereign,
he triumphed over her weakness by base and
unmanly violence.

There are not wanting those who affirm that
the hapless Florinda lent a yielding ear to the
solicitations of the monarch, and her name has

been treated with opprobrium in several of the
ancient chronicles and legendary ballads that
have transmitted, from generation to generation,
the story of the woes of Spain. In very truth,
however, she appears to have been a guiltless
victim, resisting, as far as helpless female could
resist, the arts and intrigues of a powerful monarch,
who had nought to check the indulgence of
his will, and bewailing her disgrace with a poignancy
that shows how dearly she had prized her
honour.

In the first paroxysm of her grief she wrote a
letter to her father, blotted with her tears and
almost incoherent from her agitation. “Would
to God, my father,” said she, “that the earth had
opened and swallowed me ere I had been reduced
to write these lines. I blush to tell thee,
what it is not proper to conceal. Alas, my
father! thou hast entrusted thy lamb to the guardianship
of the lion. Thy daughter has been dishonoured,
the royal cradle of the Goths polluted,
and our lineage insulted and disgraced. Hasten,
my father, to rescue your child from the power
of the spoiler, and to vindicate the honour of
your house.”

When Florinda had written these lines, she
summoned a youthful esquire, who had been a
page in the service of her father. “Saddle thy
steed,” said she, “and if thou dost aspire to

knightly honour, or hope for lady's grace; if
thou hast fealty for thy lord, or devotion to his
daughter, speed swiftly upon my errand. Rest
not, halt not, spare not the spur, but hie thee day
and night until thou reach the sea; take the first
bark, and haste with sail and oar to Ceuta, nor
pause until thou give this letter to the count my
father.” The youth put the letter in his bosom.
“Trust me, lady,” said he, “I will neither halt,
nor turn aside, nor cast a look behind, until I
reach Count Julian.” He mounted his fleet
steed, sped his way across the bridge, and soon
left behind him the verdant valley of the Tagus.

6. CHAPTER VI.

The heart of Don Roderick was not so depraved
by sensuality, but that the wrong he had
been guilty of toward the innocent Florinda, and
the disgrace he had inflicted on her house, weighed
heavy on his spirits, and a cloud began to
gather on his once clear and unwrinkled brow.

Heaven, at this time, say the old Spanish
chronicles, permitted a marvellous intimation of
the wrath with which it intended to visit the
monarch and his people, in punishment of their
sins; nor are we, say the same orthodox writers,
to startle and withhold our faith when we meet in
the page of discreet and sober history with these
signs and portents, which transcend the probabilities
of ordinary life; for the revolutions of
empires and the downfall of mighty kings are
awful events, that shake the physical as well as
the moral world, and are often announced by
forerunning marvels and prodigious omens.

With such like cautious preliminaries do the
wary but credulous historiographers of yore usher

in a marvellous event of prophecy and enchantment,
linked in ancient story with the fortunes
of Don Roderick, but which modern doubters
would fain hold up as an apocryphal tradition of
Arabian origin.

Now, so it happened, according to the legend,
that about this time, as King Roderick was seated
one day on his throne, surrounded by his
nobles, in the ancient city of Toledo, two men
of venerable appearance entered the hall of
audience. Their snowy beards descended to
their breasts, and their gray hairs were bound
with ivy. They were arrayed in white garments
of foreign or antiquated fashion, which
swept the ground, and were cintured with girdles,
wrought with the signs of the zodiac, from
which were suspended enormous bunches of
keys of every variety of form. Having approached
the throne and made obeisance: “Know, O
king,” said one of the old men, “that in days of
yore, when Hercules of Lybia, surnamed the
strong, had set up his pillars at the ocean strait,
he erected a tower near to this ancient city of
Toledo. He built it of prodigious strength, and
finished it with magic art, shutting up within it a
fearful secret, never to be penetrated without
peril and disaster. To protect this terrible mystery
he closed the entrance to the edifice with a
ponderous door of iron, secured by a great lock

of steel, and he left a command that every king
who should succeed him should add another lock
to the portal; denouncing woe and destruction
on him who should eventually unfold the secret
of the tower.

The guardianship of the portal was given to
our ancestors, and has continued in our family,
from generation to generation, since the days of
Hercules. Several kings, from time to time,
have caused the gate to be thrown open, and
have attempted to enter, but have paid dearly
for their temerity. Some have perished within
the threshold, others have been overwhelmed
with horror at tremendous sounds, which shook
the foundations of the earth, and have hastened
to reclose the door and secure it with its thousand
locks. Thus, since the days of Hercules,
the inmost recesses of the pile have never been
penetrated by mortal man, and a profound mystery
continues to prevail over this great enchantment.
This, O king, is all we have to relate;
and our errand is to entreat thee to repair to the
tower and affix thy lock to the portal, as has
been done by all thy predecessors.” Having thus
said, the ancient men made a profound reverence
and departed from the presence chamber.[10]

Don Roderick remained for sometime lost in
thought after the departure of the men; he then
dismissed all his court excepting the venerable
Urbino, at that time archbishop of Toledo. The
long white beard of this prelate bespoke his
advanced age, and his overhanging eyebrows
showed him a man full of wary council.

“Father,” said the king, “I have an earnest
desire to penetrate the mystery of this tower.”
The worthy prelate shook his hoary head, “beware
my son,” said he, “there are secrets hidden
from man for his good. Your predecessors for
many generations have respected this mystery,
and have increased in might and empire. A
knowledge of it, therefore, is not material to the
welfare of your kingdom. Seek not then to
indulge a rash and unprofitable curiosity, which
is interdicted under such awful menaces.”

“Of what importance,” cried the king, “are
the menaces of Hercules, the Lybian? was he not
a pagan; and can his enchantments have ought
avail against a believer in our holy faith? Doubtless
in this tower are locked up treasures of gold
and jewels, amassed in days of old, the spoils of
mighty kings, the riches of the pagan world. My
coffers are exhausted; I have need of supply;
and surely it would be an acceptable act in the
eyes of heaven, to draw forth this wealth which

lies buried under profane and necromantic spells,
and consecrate it to religious purposes.”

The venerable archbishop still continued to
remonstrate, but Don Roderick heeded not his
council, for he was led on by his malignant star.
“Father,” said he, “it is in vain you attempt to
dissuade me. My resolution is fixed. Tomorrow
I will explore the hidden mystery, or rather
the hidden treasures of this tower.”

7. CHAPTER VII.

The morning sun shone brightly upon the cliff-built
towers of Toledo, when King Roderick
issued out of the gate of the city at the head of a
numerous train of courtiers and cavaliers, and
crossed the bridge that bestrides the deep rocky
bed of the Tagus. The shining cavalcade wound
up the road that leads among the mountains, and
soon came in sight of the necromantic tower.

Of this renowned edifice marvels are related by
the ancient Arabian and Spanish chroniclers,
“and I doubt much.” adds the venerable Agapida,
“whether many readers will not consider the
whole as a cunningly devised fable, sprung from
an oriental imagination; but it is not for me to
reject a fact which is recorded by all those writers
who are the fathers of our national history;
a fact too, which is as well attested as most of
the remarkable events in the story of Don Roderick.
None but light and inconsiderate minds,”
continues the good friar, “do hastily reject the
marvellous. To the thinking mind the whole
world is enveloped in mystery, and every thing

is full of type and portent. To such a mind the
necromantic tower of Toledo will appear as one
of those wondrous monuments of the olden time;
one of those Egyptian and Chaldaic piles, storied
with hidden wisdom and mystic prophecy, which
have been devised in past ages, when man yet
enjoyed an intercourse with high and spiritual
natures, and when human foresight partook of
divination.”

This singular tower was round and of great
height and grandeur, erected upon a lofty rock,
and surrounded by crags and precipices. The
foundation was supported by four brazen lions,
each taller than a cavalier on horseback. The
walls were built of small pieces of jasper and
various coloured marbles, not larger than a man's
hand; so subtilely joined, however, that, but for
their different hues they might be taken for one,
entire stone. They were arranged with marvellous
cunning so as to represent battles and warlike
deeds of times and heroes long since passed
away, and the whole surface was so admirably
polished that the stones were as lustrous as glass,
and reflected the rays of the sun with such resplendent
brightness as to dazzle all beholders.[11]

King Roderick and his courtiers arrived wondering

and amazed at the foot of the rock. Here
there was a narrow arched way cut through the
living stone; the only entrance to the tower. It
was closed by a massive iron gate, covered with
rusty locks of divers workmanship and in the
fashion of different centuries, which had been
affixed by the predecessors of Don Roderick.
On either side of the portal stood the two ancient
guardians of the tower, laden with the keys
appertaining to the locks.

The king alighted, and approaching the portals,
ordered the guardians to unlock the gate. The
hoary headed men drew back with terror.
“Alas!” cried they, “what is it your majesty
requires of us. Would you have the mischiefs
of this tower unbound, and let loose to shake the
earth to its foundations?”

The venerable archbishop Urbino likewise
implored him not to disturb a mystery which had
been held sacred from generation to generation
within the memory of man, and which even
Cæsar himself, when sovereign of Spain, had not
ventured to invade. The youthful cavaliers,
however, were eager to pursue the adventure,
and encouraged him in his rash curiosity.

“Come what come may,” exclaimed Don Roderick,
“I am resolved to penetrate the mystery
of this tower.” So saying, he again commanded
the guardians to unlock the portal. The

ancient men obeyed with fear and trembling,
but their hands shook with age, and when they
applied the keys the locks were so rusted by
time, or of such strange workmanship, that they
resisted their feeble efforts, whereupon the young
cavaliers pressed forward and lent their aid.
Still the locks were so numerous and difficult,
that with all their eagerness and strength a great
part of the day was exhausted before the whole
of them could be mastered.

When the last bolt had yielded to the key, the
guardians and the reverend archbishop again
entreated the king to pause and reflect. “Whatever
is within this tower,” said they, “is as yet
harmless and lies bound under a mighty spell:
venture not then to open a door which may let
forth a flood of evil upon the land.” But the
anger of the king was roused, and he ordered
that the portal should be instantly thrown open.
In vain, however, did one after another exert his
strength, and equally in vain did the cavaliers
unite their forces, and apply their shoulders to
the gate; though there was neither bar nor bolt
remaining, it was perfectly immovable.

The patience of the king was now exhausted,
and he advanced to apply his hand; scarcely,
however, did he touch the iron gate, when it
swung slowly open, uttering, as it were, a dismal
groan, as it turned reluctantly upon its hinges.

A cold, damp wind issued forth, accompanied by
a tempestuous sound. The hearts of the ancient
guardians quaked within them, and their knees
smote together; but several of the youthful cavaliers
rushed in, eager to gratify their curiosity,
or to signalize themselves in this redoubtable
enterprize. They had scarcely advanced a few
paces, however, when they recoiled, overcome
by the baleful air, or by some fearful vision.[12]
Upon this, the king ordered that fires should be
kindled to dispel the darkness, and to correct
the noxious and long imprisoned air; he then led
the way into the interior; but, though stout of
heart, he advanced with awe and hesitation.

After proceeding a short distance, he entered
a hall, or anti-chamber, on the opposite side of
which was a door, and before it, on a pedestal,
stood a gigantic figure, of the colour of bronze,
and of a terrible aspect. It held a huge mace,
which it whirled incessantly, giving such cruel
and resounding blows upon the earth as to prevent
all further entrance.

The king paused at sight of this appalling
figure, for whether it were a living being, or a
statue of magic artifice, he could not tell. On
its breast was a scroll, whereon was inscribed
in large letters, “I do my duty.”[13] After a little

while Roderick plucked up heart, and addressed
it with great solemnity: “Whatever thou be,”
said he, “know that I come not to violate this
sanctuary, but to inquire into the mystery it contains;
I conjure thee, therefore, to let me pass in
safety.”

Upon this the figure paused with uplifted mace,
and the king and his train passed unmolested
through the door.

They now entered a vast chamber, of a rare
and sumptuous architecture, difficult to be described.
The walls were incrusted with the
most precious gems, so joined together as to form
one smooth and perfect surface. The lofty
dome appeared to be self-supported, and was
studded with gems, lustrous as the stars of the
firmament. There was neither wood, nor any
other common or base material to be seen
throughout the edifice. There were no windows
or other openings to admit the day, yet a radiant
light was spread throughout the place, which
seemed to shine from the walls, and to render
every object distinctly visible.

In the centre of this hall stood a table of alabaster
of the rarest workmanship, on which was
inscribed in Greek characters, that Hercules
Alcides, the Theban Greek, had founded this
tower in the year of the world three thousand
and six. Upon the table stood a golden casket,

richly set round with precious stones, and closed
with a lock of mother of pearl, and on the lid
were inscribed the following words:

“In this coffer is contained the mystery of the
tower. The hand of none but a king can open
it; but let him beware! for marvellous events
will be revealed to him, which are to take place
before his death.”

King Roderick boldly seized upon the casket.
The venerable archbishop laid his hand upon his
arm, and made a last remonstrance. “Forbear,
my son!” said he, “desist while there is yet time.
Look not into the mysterious decrees of Providence.
God has hidden them in mercy from
our sight, and it is impious to rend the veil by
which they are concealed.”

“What have I to dread from a knowledge of
the future?” replied Roderick, with an air of
haughty presumption. “If good be destined me,
I shall enjoy it by anticipation: if evil, I shall
arm myself to meet it.” So saying he rashly
broke the lock.

Within the coffer he found nothing but a linen
cloth, folded between two tablets of copper. On
unfolding it he beheld painted on it figures of
men on horseback, of fierce demeanour, clad in
turbans and robes of various colours, after the
fashion of the Arabs, with scimitars hanging
from their necks and cross bows at their saddle

backs, and they carried banners and pennons
with divers devices. Above them was inscribed
in Greek characters, “Rash monarch! behold the
men who are to hurl thee from thy throne, and
subdue thy kingdom!”

At sight of these things the king was troubled
in spirit, and dismay fell upon his attendants.
While they were yet regarding the paintings, it
seemed as if the figures began to move, and a
faint sound of warlike tumult arose from the
cloth, with the clash of cymbal and bray of
trumpet, the neigh of steed and shout of army;
but all was heard indistinctly, as if afar off, or in
a reverie or dream. The more they gazed, the
plainer became the motion, and the louder the
noise; and the linen cloth rolled forth, and amplified,
and spread out, as it were, a mighty banner,
and filled the hall, and mingled with the air,
until its texture was no longer visible, or appeared
as a transparent cloud. And the shadowy
figures became all in motion, and the din and
uproar became fiercer and fiercer; and whether
the whole were an animated picture, or a vision,
or an array of embodied spirits, conjured up by
supernatural power, no one present could tell.
They beheld before them a great field of battle,
where christians and moslems were engaged in
deadly conflict. They heard the rush and tramp
of steeds, the blast of trump and clarion, the

clash of cymbal, and the stormy din of a thousand
drums. There was the clash of swords,
and maces, and battle axes, with the whistling of
arrows and the hurtling of darts and lances. The
christians quailed before the foe; the infidels
pressed upon them and put them to utter rout;
the standard of the cross was cast down, the
banner of Spain was trodden under foot, the air
resounded with shouts of triumph, with yells of
fury, and with the groans of dying men. Amidst
the flying squadrons King Roderick beheld a
crowned warrior, whose back was towards him,
but whose armour and device were his own, and
who was mounted on a white steed that resembled
his own war horse Orelia. In the confusion
of the flight, the warrior was dismounted
and was no longer to be seen, and Orelia galloped
wildly through the field of battle without
a rider.

Roderick staid to see no more, but rushed
from the fatal hall, followed by his terrified attendants.
They fled through the outer chamber,
where the gigantic figure with the whirling mace
had disappeared from his pedestal, and on issuing
into the open air, they found the two ancient
guardians of the tower lying dead at the portal,
as though they had been crushed by some mighty
blow. All nature, which had been clear and
serene, was now in wild uproar. The heavens

were darkened by heavy clouds; loud bursts of
thunder rent the air, and the earth was deluged
with rain and rattling hail.

The king ordered that the iron portal should
be closed, but the door was immovable, and the
cavaliers were dismayed by the tremendous
turmoil and the mingled shouts and groans that
continued to prevail within. The king and his
train hastened back to Toledo, pursued and pelted
by the tempest. The mountains shook and
echoed with the thunder, trees were uprooted
and blown down, and the Tagus raged and roared
and flowed above its banks. It seemed to the
affrighted courtiers as if the phantom legions of
the tower had issued forth and mingled with the
storm, for amidst the claps of thunder and the
howling of the wind, they fancied they heard
the sound of the drums and trumpets, the shouts
of armies and the rush of steeds. Thus beaten
by tempest and overwhelmed with horror, the
king and his courtiers arrived at Toledo, clattering
across the bridge of the Tagus, and entering
the gate in headlong confusion as though they
had been pursued by an enemy.

In the morning the heavens were again serene,
and all nature was restored to tranquility. The
king, therefore, issued forth with his cavaliers
and took the road to the tower, followed by a
great multitude, for he was anxious once more

to close the iron door, and shut up those evils
that threatened to overwhelm the land. But
lo! on coming in sight of the tower, a new wonder
met their eyes. An eagle appeared high in
the air, seeming to descend from heaven. He
bore in his beak a burning brand, and lighting
on the summit of the tower, fanned the fire with
his wings. In a little while the edifice burst
forth into a blaze as though it had been built of
rosin, and the flames mounted into the air with a
brilliancy more dazzling than the sun; nor did
they cease until every stone was consumed and
the whole was reduced to a heap of ashes. Then
there came a vast flight of birds, small of size
and sable of hue, darkening the sky like a cloud;
and they descended and wheeled in circles
round the ashes, causing so great a wind with
their wings that the whole was borne up into the
air, and scattered throughout all Spain, and
wherever a particle of that ashes fell it was as a
stain of blood. It is furthermore recorded by
ancient men and writers of former days, that all
those on whom this dust fell were afterwards
slain in battle, when the country was conquered
by the Arabs, and that the destruction of this
necromantic tower was a sign and token of the
approaching perdition of Spain.

“Let all those,” concludes the cautious friar,
“who question the verity of this most marvellous

occurrence, consult those admirable sources of
our history, the chronicle of the Moor, Rasis, and
the work entitled, the Fall of Spain, written by
the Moor, Abulcasim Tarif Abentarique. Let
them consult, moreover, the venerable historian
Bleda, and the cloud of other Catholic Spanish
writers, who have treated of this event, and they
will find I have related nothing that has not
been printed and published under the inspection
and sanction of our holy mother church. God
alone knoweth the truth of these things; I speak
nothing but what has been handed down to me
from times of old.”

8. CHAPTER VIII.

The course of our legendary narration now returns
to notice the fortunes of Count Julian,
after his departure from Toledo, to resume his
government on the coast of Barbary. He left
the Countess Frandina at Algeziras, his paternal
domain, for the province under his command was
threatened with invasion. In fact, when he arrived
at Ceuta he found his post in imminent danger
from the all-conquering moslems. The
Arabs of the east, the followers of Mahomet,
having subjugated several of the most potent
oriental kingdoms, had established their seat of
empire at Damascus, where, at this time, it was
filled by Waled Almanzor, surnamed “The Sword
of God.” From thence the tide of moslem conquest
had rolled on to the shores of the Atlantic,
so that all Almagreb, or Western Africa, had
submitted to the standard of the prophet, with
the exception of a portion of Tingitania, lying

along the straits; being the province held by
the Goths of Spain, and commanded by Count
Julian. The Arab invaders were a hundred
thousand strong, most of them veteran troops,
seasoned in warfare and accustomed to victory.
They were led by an old Arab General, Muza
ben Nosier, to whom was confided the government
of Almagreb; most of which he had himself
conquered. The ambition of this veteran was
to make the moslem conquest complete, by expelling
the christians from the African shores;
with this view his troops menaced the few remaining
Gothic fortresses of Tingitania, while he
himself set down in person before the walls of
Ceuta. The Arab chieftain had been rendered
confident by continual success, and thought nothing
could resist his arms and the sacred standard
of the prophet. Impatient of the tedious delays
of a siege, he led his troops boldly against the
rock-built towers of Ceuta, and attempted to take
the place by storm. The onset was fierce, and
the struggle desperate; the swarthy sons of the
desert were light and vigorous, and of fiery spirit,
but the Goths, enured to danger on this frontier,
retained the stubborn valour of their race, so
impaired among their brethren in Spain. They
were commanded, too, by one skilled in warfare
and ambitious of renown. After a vehement
conflict the moslem assailants were repulsed
from all points, and driven from the walls. Don
Julian sallied forth and harrassed them in their
retreat, and so severe was the carnage that the
veteran Muza was fain to break up his camp and
retire confounded from the siege.

The victory at Ceuta resounded throughout
Tingitania, and spread universal joy. On every
side were heard shouts of exultation mingled with
praises of Count Julian. He was hailed by the
people, wherever he went, as their deliverer, and
blessings were invoked upon his head. The
heart of Count Julian was lifted up, and his spirit
swelled within him; but it was with noble and
virtuous pride, for he was conscious of having
merited the blessings of his country.

In the midst of his exultation, and while the
rejoicings of the people were yet sounding in his
ears, the page arrived who bore the letter from
his unfortunate daughter.

“What tidings from the king?” said the count,
as the page knelt before him: “None my lord,”
replied the youth, “but I bear a letter sent in all
haste by the Lady Florinda.”

He took the letter from his bosom and presented
it to his lord. As Count Julian read it
his countenance darkened and fell. “This,”
said he, bitterly, “is my reward for serving a
tyrant; and these are the honours heaped on me
by my country while fighting its battles in a

foreign land. May evil overtake me, and infamy
rest upon my name, if I cease until I have full
measure of revenge.

Count Julian was vehement in his passions,
and took no council in his wrath. His spirit
was haughty in the extreme, but destitute of true
magnanimity, and when once wounded turned
to gall and venom. A dark and malignant
hatred entered into his soul, not only against
Don Roderick, but against all Spain: he looked
upon it as the scene of his disgrace, a land in
which his family was dishonoured, and, in seeking
to avenge the wrongs he had suffered from
his sovereign, he meditated against his native
country one of the blackest schemes of treason
that ever entered into the human heart.

The plan of Count Julian was to hurl King
Roderick from his throne, and to deliver all
Spain into the hands of the infidels. In concerting
and executing this treacherous plot, it seemed
as if his whole nature was changed; every
lofty and generous sentiment was stifled, and he
stooped to the meanest dissimulation. His first
object was, to extricate his family from the power
of the king, and to remove it from Spain before
his treason should be known; his next, to deprive
the country of its remaining means of defence
against an invader.

With these dark purposes at heart, but with

an open and serene countenance, he crossed to
Spain and repaired to the court at Toledo.
Wherever he came he was hailed with acclamation,
as a victorious general, and appeared in
the presence of his sovereign radiant with the
victory at Ceuta. Concealing from King Roderick
his knowledge of the outrage upon his
house, he professed nothing but the most devoted
loyalty and affection.

The king loaded him with favours; seeking
to appease his own conscience by heaping honours
upon the father in atonement of the deadly
wrong inflicted upon his child. He regarded
Count Julian, also, as a man able and experienced
in warfare, and took his advice in all
matters relating to the military affairs of the
kingdom. The count magnified the dangers
that threatened the frontier under his command,
and prevailed upon the king to send thither the
best horses and arms remaining from the time
of Witiza, there being no need of them in the
centre of Spain, in its present tranquil state.
The residue, at his suggestion, was stationed on
the frontiers of Gallia; so that the kingdom was
left almost wholly without defence against any
sudden irruption from the south.

Having thus artfully arranged his plans, and
all things being prepared for his return to Africa,
he obtained permission to withdraw his

daughter from the court, and leave her with her
mother, the Countess Frandina, who, he pretended,
lay dangerously ill at Algeziras. Count
Julian issued out of the gate of the city, followed
by a shining band of chosen followers, while
beside him, on a palfrey, rode the pale and
weeping Florinda. The populace hailed and
blessed him as he passed, but his heart turned
from them with loathing. As he crossed the
bridge of the Tagus he looked back with a dark
brow upon Toledo, and raised his mailed hand
and shook it at the royal palace of King Roderick,
which crested the rocky height. “A father's
curse,” said he, “be upon thee and thine!
may desolation fall upon thy dwelling, and confusion
and defeat upon thy realm!”

In his journeyings through the country, he
looked round him with a malignant eye; the
pipe of the shepherd, and the song of the husbandman,
were as discord to his soul; every
sight and sound of human happiness sickened
him at heart, and, in the bitterness of his spirit,
he prayed that he might see the whole scene of
prosperity laid waste with fire and sword by the
invader.

The story of domestic outrage and disgrace
had already been made known to the Countess
Frandina. When the hapless Florinda came in
presence of her mother, she fell on her neck,

and hid her face in her bosom, and wept; but
the countess shed never a tear, for she was a
woman haughty of spirit and strong of heart.
She looked her husband sternly in the face.
“Perdition light upon thy head,” said she, “if
thou submit to this dishonour. For my own
part, woman as I am, I will assemble the followers
of my house, nor rest until rivers of
blood have washed away this stain.”

“Be satisfied,” replied the count, “vengeance
is on foot, and will be sure and ample.”

Being now in his own domains, surrounded
by his relatives and friends, Count Julian went
on to complete his web of treason. In this he
was aided by his brother-in-law, Oppas, the
bishop of Seville: a man dark and perfidious
as the night, but devout in demeanour, and
smooth and plausible in council. This artful
prelate had contrived to work himself into the
entire confidence of the king, and had even
prevailed upon him to permit his nephews, Evan
and Siseburto, the exiled sons of Witiza, to return
into Spain. They resided in Andalusia,
and were now looked to as fit instruments in
the present traitorous conspiracy.

By the advice of the bishop, Count Julian
called a secret meeting of his relatives and adherents
on a wild rocky mountain, not far from
Consuegra, and which still bears the Moorish

appellation of “La Sierra de Calderin,” or the
mountain of treason.[14] When all were assembled,
Count Julian appeared among them, accompanied
by the bishop and by the Countess
Frandina. Then gathering around him those
who were of his blood and kindred, he revealed
the outrage that had been offered to their house.
He represented to them that Roderick was their
legitimate enemy; that he had dethroned Witiza,
their relation, and had now stained the honour
of one of the most illustrious daughters of their
line, The Countess Frandina seconded his
words. She was a woman majestic in person
and eloquent of tongue, and being inspired by
a mother's feelings, her speech aroused the assembled
cavaliers to fury.

The count took advantage of the excitement
of the moment to unfold his plan. The main
object was to dethrone Don Roderick, and give
the crown to the sons of the late King Witiza.
By this means they would visit the sins of the
tyrant upon his head, and, at the same time,
restore the regal honours to their line. For this
purpose their own force would be sufficient, but
they might procure the aid of Muza ben Nosier,
the Arabian general, in Mauritania, who would
no doubt gladly send a part of his troops into
Spain to assist in the enterprise.

The plot thus suggested by Count Julian received
the unholy sanction of Bishop Oppas,
who engaged to aid it secretly with all his influence
and means: for he had great wealth and
possessions, and many retainers. The example
of the reverend prelate determined all who
might otherwise have wavered, and they bound
themselves by dreadful oaths to be true to the
conspiracy. Count Julian undertook to proceed
to Africa, and seek the camp of Muza, to negotiate
for his aid, while the bishop was to keep
about the person of King Roderick, and lead
him into the net prepared for him.

All things being thus arranged, Count Julian
gathered together his treasure, and taking his
wife and daughter and all his household, abandoned
the country he meant to betray; embarking
at Malaga for Ceuta. The gate in the wall
of that city, through which they went forth,
continued for ages to bear the name of Puerta
de la Cava, or the gate of the harlot; for such
was the opprobrious and unmerited appellation
bestowed by the Moors on the unhappy Florinda.
[15]

9. CHAPTER IX.

When Count Julian had placed his family in
security in Ceuta, surrounded by soldiery devoted
to his fortunes, he took with him a few
confidential followers, and departed in secret
for the camp of the Arabian Emir, Muza ben
Nosier. The camp was spread out in one of
those pastoral valleys which lie at the feet of the
Barbary hills, with the great range of the Atlas
mountains towering in the distance. In the
motley army here assembled were warriors of
every tribe and nation, that had been united by
pact or conquest in the cause of Islam. There
were those who had followed Muza from the
fertile regions of Egypt, across the deserts of
Barca, and those who had joined his standard
from among the sun-burnt tribes of Mauritanea.
There were Saracen and Tartar, Syrian and Copt,
and swarthy Moor; sumptuous warriors from the
civilized cities of the east, and the gaunt and
predatory rovers of the desert. The greater
part of the army, however, was composed of

Arabs; but differing greatly from the first rude
hordes that enlisted under the banner of Mahomet.
Almost a century of continual wars with
the cultivated nations of the east had rendered
them accomplished warriors; and the occasional
sojourn in luxurious countries and populous cities,
had acquainted them with the arts and habits of
civilized life. Still the roving, restless, and predatory
habits of the genuine son of Ishmael prevailed,
in defiance of every change of clime or
situation.

Count Julian found the Arab conqueror Muza
surrounded by somewhat of oriental state and
splendour. He was advanced in life, but of a
noble presence, and concealed his age by tinging
his hair and beard with henna. The count assumed
an air of soldier-like frankness and decision
when he came into his presence. “Hitherto,”
said he, “we have been enemies, but I come
to thee in peace, and it rests with thee to make
me the most devoted of thy friends. I have no
longer country or king. Roderick the Goth is an
usurper, and my deadly foe; he has wounded
my honour in the tenderest point, and my country
affords me no redress. Aid me in my vengeance,
and I will deliver all Spain into thy
hands: a land far exceeding in fertility and
wealth all the vaunted regions thou hast conquered
in Tingitania.”

The heart of Muza leaped with joy at these
words, for he was a bold and ambitious conqueror,
and, having overrun all western Africa,
had often cast a wistful eye to the mountains of
Spain, as he beheld them brightening beyond
the waters of the strait. Still he possessed the
caution of a veteran, and feared to engage in an
enterprize of such moment, and to carry his
arms into another division of the globe, without
the approbation of his sovereign. Having drawn
from Count Julian the particulars of his plan,
and of the means he possessed to carry it into
effect, he laid them before his confidential counsellors
and officers, and demanded their opinion.
“These words of Count Julian,” said he, “may
be false and deceitful; or he may not possess
the power to fulfil his promises. The whole
may be a pretended treason to draw us on to
our destruction. It is more natural that he
should be treacherous to us than to his country.”

Among the generals of Muza, was a gaunt
swarthy veteran, scarred with wounds; a very
Arab, whose great delight was roving and desperate
enterprise, and who cared for nothing
beyond his steed, his lance, and scimitar. He
was a native of Damascus; his name was Taric
ben Zeyad, but, from having lost an eye, he was
known among the Spaniards by the appellation
of Taric el Tuerto, or Taric, the one-eyed.

The hot blood of this veteran Ishmaelite was
in a ferment when he heard of a new country to
invade, and vast regions to subdue, and he dreaded
lest the cautious hesitation of Muza should
permit the glorious prize to escape them. “You
speak doubtingly,” said he, “of the words of this
christian cavalier, but their truth is easily to be
ascertained. Give me four galleys and a handful
of men, and I will depart with this Count Julian,
skirt the christian coast, and bring thee
back tidings of the land, and of his means to put
it in our power.”

The words of the veteran pleased Muza ben
Nosier, and he gave his consent; and Taric departed
with four galleys and five hundred men,
guided by the traitor Julian.[16] This first expedition
of the Arabs against Spain took place, according
to certain historians, in the year of our
Lord seven hundred and twelve; though others
differ on this point, as indeed they do upon almost
every point in this early period of Spanish
history. The date to which the judicious chroniclers
incline, is that of seven hundred and ten,
in the month of July. It would appear from
some authorities, also, that the galleys of Taric
cruised along the coasts of Andalusia and Lusitania,
under the feigned character of merchant

barks, nor is this at all improbable, while they
were seeking merely to observe the land, and
get a knowledge of the harbours. Wherever
they touched, Count Julian despatched emissaries
to assemble his friends and adherents at an
appointed place. They gathered together secretly
at Gezira Alhadra, that is to say, the Green
Island, where they held a conference with Count
Julian in presence of Taric ben Zeyad.[17] Here
they again avowed their readiness to flock to his
standard whenever it should be openly raised,
and made known their various preparations for
a rebellion. Taric was convinced, by all that
he had seen and heard, that Count Julian
had not deceived them, either as to his disposition
or his means to betray his country. Indulging
his Arab inclinations, he made an inroad
into the land, collected great spoil and many
captives, and bore off his plunder in triumph to
Muza, as a specimen of the riches to be gained
by the conquest of the christian land.[18]

10. CHAPTER X.

On hearing the tidings brought by Taric el
Tuerto, and beholding the spoil he had collected,
Muza wrote a letter to the Caliph Waled
Almanzor, setting forth the traitorous proffer of
Count Julian, and the probability, through his
means, of making a successful invasion of Spain.
“A new land,” said he, “spreads itself out before
our delighted eyes, and invites our conquest.
A land, too, that equals Syria in the fertility of
its soil, and the serenity of its sky; Yemen, or
Arabia the happy, in its delightful temperature;
India in its flowers and spices; Hegiaz in its
fruits and flowers; Cathay in its precious minerals,
and Aden in the excellence of its ports and
harbours. It is populous also, and wealthy;
having many splendid cities and majestic monuments
of ancient art. What is to prevent this
glorious land from becoming the inheritance of
the faithful? Already we have overcome the
tribes of Berbery, of Zab, of Derar, of Zaara,

Mazamuda and Sus, and the victorious standard
of Islam floats on the towers of Tangier. But
four leagues of sea separate us from the opposite
coast. One word from my sovereign, and
the conquerors of Africa will pour their legions
into Andalusia, rescue it from the domination of
the unbeliever, and subdue it to the law of the
Koran.”[19]

The caliph was overjoyed with the contents
of the letter. “God is great!” exclaimed he,
“and Mahomet is his prophet! It has been
foretold by the ambassador of God that his law
should extend to the ultimate parts of the west,
and be carried by the sword into new and unknown
regions. Behold another land is opened
for the triumphs of the faithful. It is the will
of Allah, and be his sovereign will obeyed.”
So the caliph sent missives to Muza, authorizing
him to undertake the conquest.

Upon this there was a great stir of preparation,
and numerous vessels were assembled and
equipped at Tangier to convey the invading
army across the straits. Twelve thousand men
were chosen for this expedition: most of them
light Arabian troops, seasoned in warfare, and
fitted for hardy and rapid enterprise. Among
them were many horsemen, mounted on fleet
Arabian steeds. The whole was put under the

command of the veteran, Taric el Tuerto, or
the one-eyed, in whom Muza reposed implicit
confidence as in a second self. Taric accepted
the command with joy; his martial fire was
roused at the idea of having such an army under
his sole command, and such a country to
overrun, and he secretly determined never to
return unless victorious.

He chose a dark night to convey his troops
across the straits of Hercules, and by break of
day they began to disembark at Tarifa before
the country had time to take the alarm. A few
christians hastily assembled from the neighbourhood
and opposed their landing, but were easily
put to flight. Taric stood on the sea-side, and
watched until the last squadron had landed, and
all the horses, armour, and munitions of war,
were brought on shore; he then gave orders to
set fire to the ships. The moslems were struck
with terror when they beheld their fleet wrapped
in flames and smoke, and sinking beneath
the waves. “How shall we escape,” exclaimed
they, “if the fortune of war should be against
us?” “There is no escape for the coward!”
cried Taric, “the brave man thinks of none;
your only chance is victory.” “But how without
ships shall we ever return to our homes?”
“Your home,” replied Taric, is before you;
but you must win it with your swords.”

While Taric was yet talking with his followers,
says one of the ancient chroniclers, a christian
female was descried waving a white pennon
on a reed, in signal of peace. On being
brought into the presence of Taric, she prostrated
herself before him. “Senior,” said she,
“I am an ancient woman; and it is now full sixty
years past and gone since, as I was keeping
vigils one winter's night by the fireside, I heard
my father, who was an exceeding old man, read
a prophecy said to have been written by a holy
friar; and this was the purport of the prophecy,
that a time would arrive when our country
would be invaded and conquered by a people
from Africa of a strange garb, a strange tongue,
and a strange religion. They were to be led
by a strong and valiant captain, who would be
known by these signs: on his right shoulder he
would have a hairy mole, and his right arm
would be much longer than the left, and of such
length as to enable him to cover his knee with
his hand without bending his body.”

Taric listened to the old beldame with grave
attention, and when she had concluded, he laid
bare his shoulder, and lo! there was the mole
as it had been described; his right arm, also, was
in verity found to exceed the other in length,
though not to the degree that had been mentioned.

Upon this the Arab host shouted for
joy, and felt assured of conquest.

The discreet Antonio Agapida, though he records
this circumstance as it is set down in ancient
chronicle, yet withholds his belief from
the pretended prophecy, considering the whole
a cunning device of Taric to increase the courage
of his troops. “Doubtless,” says he, “there
was a collusion between this ancient sybil and
the crafty son of Ishmael; for these infidel leaders
were full of damnable inventions to work
upon the superstitious fancies of their followers,
and to inspire them with a blind confidence in
the success of their arms.”

Be this as it may, the veteran Taric took advantage
of the excitement of his soldiery, and
led them forward to gain possession of a strong
hold, which was, in a manner, the key to all the
adjacent country. This was a lofty mountain
or promontory almost surrounded by the sea,
and connected with the main land by a narrow
isthmus. It was called the rock of Calpe, and,
like the opposite rock of Ceuta, commanded
the entrance to the Mediterranean Sea. Here
in old times, Hercules had set up one of his pillars,
and the city of Heraclea had been built.

As Taric advanced against this promontory,
he was opposed by a hasty levy of the christians,
who had assembled under the banner of a

Gothic noble of great power and importance,
whose domains lay along the mountainous coast
of the Mediterranean. The name of this
christian cavalier was Theodomir, but he has
universally been called Tadmir by the Arabian
historians, and is renowned as being the first
commander that made any stand against the
inroad of the moslems. He was about forty
years of age; hardy, prompt, and sagacious;
and had all the Gothic nobles been equally vigilant
and shrewd in their defence, the banner of
Islam would never have triumphed over the
land.

Theodomir had but seventeen hundred men
under his command, and these but rudely armed;
yet he made a resolute stand against the
army of Taric, and defended the pass to the
promontory with great valour. He was, at
length, obliged to retreat, and Taric advanced
and planted his standard on the rock of Calpe,
and fortified it as his strong hold, and as the
means of securing an entrance into the land.
To commemorate his first victory, he changed
the name of the promontory, and called it Gibel
Taric, or the mountain of Taric, but in process
of time the name has gradually been
altered to Gibraltar.

In the meantime, the patriotic chieftain Theodomir
having collected his routed forces, en

camped with them on the skirts of the mountains,
and summoned the country round to join
his standard. He sent off missives in all speed
to the king, imparting in brief and blunt terms
the news of the invasion, and craving assistance
with equal frankness. “Senior,” said he, in his
letter, “the legions of Africa are upon us, but
whether they come from heaven or earth I
know not. They seem to have fallen from the
clouds, for they have no ships. We have been
taken by surprise, overpowered by numbers,
and obliged to retreat; and they have fortified
themselves in our territory. Send us aid, senior,
with instant speed, or rather, come yourself
to our assistance.”[20]

11. CHAPTER XI.

When Don Roderick heard that legions of
turbaned troops had poured into the land from
Africa, he called to mind the visions and predictions
of the necromantic tower, and great
fear came upon him. But, though sunk from
his former hardihood and virtue, though enervated
by indulgence, and degraded in spirit by
a consciousness of crime, he was resolute of
soul, and roused himself to meet the coming
danger. He summoned a hasty levy of horse
and foot, amounting to forty thousand; but now
were felt the effects of the crafty council of
Count Julian, for the best of the horses and armour
intended for the public service, had been
sent into Africa, and were really in possession
of the traitors. Many nobles, it is true, took
the field with the sumptuous array with which
they had been accustomed to appear at tournaments

and jousts, but most of their vassals were
destitute of weapons, and cased in cuirasses of
leather, or suits of armour almost consumed by
rust. They were without discipline or animation;
and their horses, like themselves, pampered
by slothful peace, were little fitted to
bear the heat, the dust, and toil, of long campaigns.

This army Don Roderick put under the command
of his kinsman Ataulpho, a prince of the
royal blood of the Goths, and of a noble and
generous nature; and he ordered him to march
with all speed to meet the foe, and to recruit
his forces on the way with the troops of Theodomir.

In the meantime, Taric el Tuerto had received
large reinforcements from Africa, and
the adherents of Count Julian, and all those
discontented with the sway of Don Roderick,
had flocked to his standard; for many were
deceived by the representations of Count Julian,
and thought that the Arabs had come to
aid him in placing the sons of Witiza upon the
throne. Guided by the count, the troops of
Taric penetrated into various parts of the
country, and laid waste the land; bringing back
loads of spoil to their strong hold at the rock
of Calpe.

The prince Ataulpho marched with his army

through Andalusia, and was joined by Theodomir
with his troops; he met with various detachments
of the enemy foraging the country,
and had several bloody skirmishes; but he succeeded
in driving them before him, and they
retreated to the rock of Calpe, where Taric lay
gathered up with the main body of his army.

The prince encamped not far from the bay
which spreads itself out before the promontory.
In the evening he despatched the veteran Theodomir,
with a trumpet, to demand a parley of
the Arab chieftain, who received the envoy in
his tent, surrounded by his captains. Theodomir
was frank and abrupt in speech, for the
most of his life had been passed far from
courts. He delivered, in round terms, the message
of the Prince Ataulpho; upbraiding the
Arab general with his wanton invasion of the
land, and summoning him to surrender his army
or to expect no mercy.

The single eye of Taric el Tuerto glowed
like a coal of fire at this message. “Tell your
commander,” replied he, “that I have crossed
the strait to conquer Spain, nor will I return
until I have accomplished my purpose. Tell
him I have men skilled in war, and armed in
proof, with whose aid I trust soon to give a
good account of his rabble host.”

A murmur of applause passed through the

assemblage of moslem captains. Theodomir
glanced on them a look of defiance, but his eye
rested on a renegado christian, one of his own
ancient comrades, and a relation of Count Julian.
“As to you, Don Greybeard,” said he,
“you who turn apostate in your declining age,
I here pronounce you a traitor to your God,
your king, and country; and stand ready to
prove it this instant upon your body, if field be
granted me.”

The traitor knight was stung with rage at
these words, for truth rendered them piercing
to the heart. He would have immediately answered
to the challenge, but Taric forbade it,
and ordered that the christian envoy should be
conducted from the camp. “'Tis well,” replied
Theodomir, “God will give me the field
which you deny. Let yon hoary apostate look
to himself tomorrow in the battle, for I pledge
myself to use my lance upon no other foe until
it has shed his blood upon the native soil he has
betrayed.” So saying, he left the camp, nor
could the moslem chieftains help admiring the
honest indignation of this patriot knight, while
they secretly despised his renegado adversary.

The ancient moorish chroniclers relate many
awful portents, and strange and mysterious visions,
which appeared to the commanders of
either army during this anxious night. Certainly

it was a night of fearful suspense, and moslem
and christian looked forward with doubt to
the fortune of the coming day. The Spanish
sentinel walked his pensive round, listening occasionally
to the vague sounds from the distant
rock of Calpe, and eyeing it as the mariner
eyes the thunder cloud, pregnant with terror
and destruction. The Arabs, too, from their
lofty cliffs beheld the numerous camp-fires of
the christians gradually lighted up, and saw that
they were a powerful host; at the same time
the night breeze brought to their ears the sullen
roar of the sea which separated them from
Africa. When they considered their perilous
situation, an army on one side, with a whole
nation aroused to reinforce it, and on the other
an impassable sea, the spirits of many of the
warriors were cast down, and they repented
the day when they had ventured into this hostile
land.

Taric marked their despondency, but said
nothing. Scarce had the first streak of morning
light trembled along the sea, however, when
he summoned his principal warriors to his tent.
“Be of good cheer,” said he, “Allah is with us,
and has sent his prophet to give assurance of
his aid. Scarce had I retired to my tent last
night, when a man of a majestic and venerable
presence stood before me. He was taller by a

palm than the ordinary race of men, his flowing
beard was of a golden hue, and his eyes were
so bright that they seemed to send forth flashes
of fire. I have heard the Emir Bahamet, and
other ancient men, describe the prophet, whom
they had seen many times while on earth, and
such was his form and lineament. `Fear nothing,
O Taric, from the morrow,' said he, `I will
be with thee in the fight. Strike boldly, then,
and conquer. Those of thy followers who survive
the battle will have this land for an inheritance;
for those who fall a mansion in paradise
is prepared, and immortal houries await their
coming.' He spake and vanished; I heard a
strain of celestial melody, and my tent was
filled with the odours of Arabia the happy.”
“Such,” says the Spanish chroniclers, “was
another of the arts by which this arch son of
Ishmael sought to animate the hearts of his followers;
and the pretended vision has been recorded
by the Arabian writers as a veritable
occurrence. Marvellous, indeed, was the effect
produced by it upon the infidel soldiery, who
now cried out with eagerness to be led against
the foe.

12. CHAPTER XII.

The gray summits of the rock of Calpe brightened
with the first rays of morning, as the christian
army issued forth from its encampment. The
Prince Ataulpho rode from squadron to squadron,
animating his soldiers for the battle. “Never
should we sheath our swords,” said he, “while
these infidels have a footing in the land. They
are pent up within yon rocky mountain, we must
assail them in their rugged hold. We have a
long day before us; let not the setting sun shine
upon one of their host who is not a fugitive, a
captive, or a corpse.”

The words of the prince were received with
shouts, and the army moved towards the promontory.
As they advanced, they heard the clash
of cymbals and the bray of trumpets, and the
rocky bosom of the mountain glittered with helms
and spears and scimitars; for the Arabs, inspired
with fresh confidence by the words of Taric,
were sallying forth, with flaunting banners, to
the combat.

The gaunt Arab chieftain stood upon a rock as
his troops marched by; his buckler was at his
back, and he brandished in his hand a double-pointed
spear. Calling upon the several leaders
by their names, he exhorted them to direct
their attacks against the christian captains,
and especially against Ataulpho, “for the chiefs
being slain,” said he, “their followers will vanish
from before us like the morning mist.”

The Gothic nobles were easily to be distinguished
by the splendour of their arms, but the
Prince Ataulpho was conspicuous above all the
rest for the youthful grace and majesty of his
appearance, and the bravery of his array. He
was mounted on a superb Andalusian charger,
richly caparisoned with crimson velvet, embroidered
with gold. His surcoat was of like colour
and adornment, and the plumes that waved above
his burnished helmet, were of the purest white.
Ten mounted pages, magnificently attired, followed
him to the field, but their duty was not so
much to fight as to attend upon their lord, and to
furnish him with steed or weapon.

The christian troops, though irregular and
undisciplined, were full of native courage; for the
old warrior spirit of their Gothic sires still glowed
in their bosoms. There were two battalions
of infantry, but Ataulpho stationed them in the
rear, “for God forbid,” said he, “that foot soldiers

should have the place of honour in the battle,
when I have so many valiant cavaliers.” As the
armies drew nigh to each other, however, it was
discovered that the advance of the Arabs was
composed of infantry. Upon this the cavaliers
checked their steeds, and requested that the foot
soldiery might advance and disperse this losel
crew, holding it beneath their dignity to contend
with pedestrian foes. The prince, however,
commanded them to charge; upon which, putting
spurs to their steeds, they rushed upon the
foe.

The Arabs stood the shock manfully, receiving
the horses upon the points of their lances; many
of the riders were shot down with bolts from
cross-bows, or stabbed with the poniards of the
moslems. The cavaliers succeeded, however, in
breaking into the midst of the battalion and
throwing it into confusion, cutting down some
with their swords, transpiercing others with their
spears, and trampling many under the hoofs of
their horses. At this moment, they were attacked
by a band of Spanish horsemen, the recreant partisans
of Count Julian. Their assault bore hard
upon their countrymen, who were disordered by
the contest with the foot soldiers, and many a
loyal christian knight fell beneath the sword of
an unnatural foe.

The foremost among these recreant warriors

was the renegado cavalier whom Theodomir
had challenged in the tent of Taric. He dealt
his blows about him with a powerful arm and
with malignant fury, for nothing is more deadly
than the hatred of an apostate. In the midst of
his career he was espied by the hardy Theodomir,
who came spurring to the encounter:
“Traitor,” cried he, “I have kept my vow. This
lance has been held sacred from all other foes
to make a passage for thy perjured soul.” The
renegado had been renowned for prowess before
he became a traitor to his country, but guilt will
sap the courage of the stoutest heart. When he
beheld Theodomir rushing upon him, he would
have turned and fled; pride alone withheld him;
and, though an admirable master of defence, he
lost all skill to ward the attack of his adversary.
At the first assault the lance of Theodomir pierced
him through and through; he fell to the earth,
gnashed his teeth as he rolled in the dust, but
yielded his breath without uttering a word.

The battle now became general, and lasted
throughout the morning with varying success.
The stratagem of Taric, however, began to produce
its effect. The christian leaders and most
conspicuous cavaliers were singled out and severally
assailed by overpowering numbers. They
fought desperately, and performed miracles of
prowess, but fell, one by one, beneath a thousand

wounds. Still the battle lingered on throughout
a great part of the day, and as the declining sun
shone through the clouds of dust, it seemed as
if the conflicting hosts were wrapped in smoke
and fire.

The Prince Ataulpho saw that the fortune of
battle was against him. He rode about the field
calling out the names of the bravest of his knights,
but few answered to his call, the rest lay mangled
on the field. With this handful of warriors
he endeavoured to retrieve the day, when he
was assailed by Tenderos, a partisan of Count
Julian, at the head of a body of recreant christians.
At sight of this new adversary, fire
flashed from the eyes of the prince, for Tenderos
had been brought up in his father's palace.
“Well dost thou, traitor!” cried he, “to attack
the son of thy lord, who gave thee bread; thou,
who hast betrayed thy country and thy God!”

So saying, he seized a lance from one of his
pages, and charged furiously upon the apostate;
but Tenderos met him in mid career, and the
lance of the prince was shivered upon his shield.
Ataulpho then grasped his mace, which hung at
his saddle bow, and a doubtful fight ensued. Tenderos
was powerful of frame and superior in the
use of his weapons, but the curse of treason
seemed to paralyse his arm. He wounded
Ataulpho slightly between the greaves of his

armour, but the prince dealt a blow with his
mace that crushed through helm and scull and
reached the brains; and Tenderos fell dead to
earth, his armour rattling as he fell.

At the same moment, a javelin hurled by an
Arab transpierced the horse of Ataulpho, which
sunk beneath him. The prince seized the reins
of the steed of Tenderos, but the faithful animal,
as though he knew him to be the foe of his late
lord, reared and plunged and refused to let him
mount. The prince, however, used him as a
shield to ward off the press of foes, while with
his sword he defended himself against those in
front of him. Taric ben Zeyad arrived at the
scene of conflict, and paused for a moment in
admiration of the surpassing prowess of the
prince; recollecting, however, that his fall would
be a death blow to his army, he spurred upon him,
and wounded him severely with his scimitar. Before
he could repeat his blow, Theodomir led up a
body of christian cavaliers to the rescue, and Taric
was parted from his prey by the tumult of the fight.
The prince sank to the earth, covered with
wounds and exhausted by the loss of blood. A
faithful page drew him from under the hoofs of
the horses, and, aided by a veteran soldier, an
ancient vassal of Ataulpho, conveyed him to a
short distance from the scene of battle, by the
side of a small stream that gushed out from

among rocks. They stanched the blood that
flowed from his wounds, and washed the dust
from his face, and lay him beside the fountain.
The page sat at his head, and supported it on
his knees, and the veteran stood at his feet, with
his brow bent and his eyes full of sorrow. The
prince gradually revived, and opened his eyes.
“How fares the battle?” said he. “The struggle
is hard,” replied the soldier, “but the day may
yet be ours.”

The prince felt that the hour of his death was
at hand, and ordered that they should aid him to
rise upon his knees. They supported him between
them, and he prayed fervently for a short
time, when, finding his strength declining, he
beckoned the veteran to sit down beside him on
the rock. Continuing to kneel, he confessed
himself to that ancient soldier, having no priest
or friar to perform that office in this hour of extremity.
When he had so done, he sunk again
upon the earth and pressed it with his lips, as if
he would take a fond farewell of his beloved
country. The page would then have raised his
head, but found that his lord had yielded up
the ghost.

A number of Arab warriors, who came to the
fountain to slake their thirst, cut off the head of
the prince and bore it in triumph to Taric, crying,
“Behold the head of the christian leader.”

Taric immediately ordered that the head should
be put upon the end of a lance, together with
the surcoat of the prince, and borne about the
field of battle, with the sound of trumpets, atabals,
and cymbals.

When the christians beheld the surcoat, and
knew the features of the prince, they were struck
with horror, and heart and hand failed them.
Theodomir endeavoured in vain to rally them,
they threw by their weapons and fled; and they
continued to fly, and the enemy to pursue and
slay them, until the darkness of the night. The
moslems then returned and plundered the christian
camp, where they found abundant spoil.

13. CHAPTER XIII.

The scattered fugitives of the christian army
spread terror throughout the land. The inhabitants
of the towns and villages gathered around
them as they applied at their gates for food, or
lay themselves down faint and wounded beside
the public fountains. When they related the
tale of their defeat, old men shook their heads
and groaned, and the women uttered cries and
lamentations. So strange and unlooked for a
calamity filled them with consternation and despair;
for it was long since the alarm of war had
sounded in their land, and this was a warfare
that carried chains and slavery, and all kinds of
horrors in its train.

Don Roderick was seated with his beauteous
queen, Exilona, in the royal palace which crowned
the rocky summit of Toledo, when the bearer
of ill-tidings came galloping over the bridge of
the Tagus. “What tidings from the army?”
demanded the king, as the panting messenger

was brought into his presence. “Tidings of
great woe,” exclaimed the soldier. “The prince
has fallen in battle. I saw his head and surcoat
upon a moorish lance, and the army was overthrown
and fled.”

At hearing these words, Roderick covered
his face with his hands, and for some time sat
in silence; and all his courtiers stood mute and
aghast, and no one dared to speak a word. In
that awful space of time passed before his
thoughts all his errors and his crimes, and all the
evils that had been predicted in the necromantic
tower. His mind was filled with horror and
confusion, for the hour of his destruction seemed
at hand; but he subdued his agitation by his
strong and haughty spirit; and when he uncovered
his face no one could read on his brow the
trouble and agony of his heart. Still every hour
brought fresh tidings of disaster. Messenger
after messenger came spurring into the city, distracting
it with new alarms. The infidels, they
said, were strengthening themselves in the land:
host after host were pouring in from Africa: the
sea board of Andalusia glittered with spears and
scimitars. Bands of turbaned horsemen had
overrun the plains of Sidonia, even to the banks
of the Guadiana. Fields were laid waste, towns
and cities plundered, the inhabitants carried into

captivity, and the whole country lay in smoking
desolation.

Roderick heard all these tidings with an undaunted
aspect, nor did he ever again betray
sign of consternation; but the anxiety of his soul
was evident in his warlike preparations. He
issued orders that every noble and prelate of his
kingdom should put himself at the head of his
retainers and take the field, and that every man
capable of bearing arms should hasten to his
standard, bringing whatever horse and mule and
weapon he possessed; and he appointed the plain
of Cordova for the place where the army was to
assemble. Throwing by, then, all the trappings
of his late slothful and voluptuous life, and arming
himself for warlike action, he departed from
Toledo at the head of his guard, composed of
the flower of the youthful nobility. His queen,
Exilona, accompanied him, for she craved permission
to remain in one of the cities of Andalusia,
that she might be near her lord in this time
of peril.

Among the first who appeared to hail the arrival
of the king at Cordova, was the Bishop Oppas,
the secret partisan of the traitor Julian. He
brought with him his two nephews, Evan and
Siseburto, the sons of the late king Witiza, and a
great host of vassals and retainers, all well armed
and appointed; for they had been furnished by

Count Julian with a part of the arms sent by the
king to Africa. The bishop was smooth of
tongue, and profound in his hypocrisy; his pretended
zeal and devotion, and the horror with
which he spoke of the treachery of his kinsman,
imposed upon the credulous spirit of the king,
and he was readily admitted into his most secret
councils.

The alarm of the infidel invasion had spread
throughout the land, and roused the Gothic valour
of the inhabitants. On receiving the orders
of Roderick, every town and hamlet, every mountain
and valley, had sent forth its fighting men,
and the whole country was on the march towards
Andalusia. In a little while there were gathered
together, on the plain of Cordova, near fifty
thousand horsemen, and a countless host of foot-soldiers.
The Gothic nobles appeared in burnished
armour, curiously inlaid and adorned,
with chains and jewels of gold, and ornaments of
precious stones, and silken scarfs, and surcoats of
brocade, or velvet richly embroidered; betraying
the luxury and ostentation into which they
had declined from the iron hardihood of their
warlike sires. As to the common people, some
had lances and shields and swords and cross-bows,
but the greater part were unarmed, or
provided merely with slings, and clubs studded
with nails, and with the iron implements of husbandry;

and many had made shields for themselves
from the doors and windows of their habitations.
They were a prodigious host, and appeared,
say the Arabian chroniclers, like an agitated
sea, but, though brave in spirit, they possessed
no knowledge of warlike art, and were
ineffectual through lack of arms and discipline.

Several of the most ancient and experienced
cavaliers, beholding the state of the army, advised
Don Roderick to await the arrival of more
regular troops, which were stationed in Iberia,
Cantabria and Gallia Gothica; but this counsel
was strenuously opposed by the Bishop Oppas;
who urged the king to march immediately against
the infidels. “As yet,” said he, “their number
is but limited, but every day new hosts arrive
like flocks of locusts, from Africa. They will
augment faster than we; they are living, too, at
our expense, and, while we pause, both armies
are consuming the substance of the land.”

King Roderick listened to the crafty counsel
of the bishop, and determined to advance without
delay. He mounted his war horse, Orelia,
and rode among his troops assembled on that
spacious plain, and wherever he appeared he was
received with acclamations; for nothing so
arouses the spirit of the soldier as to behold his
sovereign in arms. He addressed them in words
calculated to touch their hearts and animate their

courage. “The Saracens,” said he, “are ravaging
our land, and their object is our conquest.
Should they prevail, your very existence as a
nation is at an end. They will overturn your
altars; trample on the cross; lay waste your
cities; carry off your wives and daughters, and
doom yourselves and sons to hard and cruel
slavery. No safety remains for you but in the
prowess of your arms. For my own part, as I
am your king, so will I be your leader, and will
be the foremost to encounter every toil and danger.”

The soldiery answered their monarch with
loud acclamations, and solemnly pledged themselves
to fight to the last gasp in defence of
their country and their faith. The king then
arranged the order of their march: all those who
were armed with cuirasses and coats of mail
were placed in the front and rear; the centre of
the army was composed of a promiscuous throng,
without body armour, and but scantily provided
with weapons.

When they were about to march, the king
called to him a noble cavalier named Ramiro, and
delivering him the royal standard, charged him
to guard it well for the honour of Spain; scarcely,
however, had the good knight received it in
his hand, when he fell dead from his horse, and
the staff of the standard was broken in twain.

Many ancient courtiers who were present, looked
upon this as an evil omen, and counselled the
king not to set forward on his march that day;
but, disregarding all auguries and portents, he
ordered the royal banner to be put upon a lance
and gave it in charge of another standard bearer:
then commanding the trumpets to be sounded,
he departed at the head of his host to seek the
enemy.

The field where this great army assembled
was called, from the solemn pledge given by the
nobles and the soldiery, El campo de la verdad;
or, The field of Truth; a name, says the sage
chronicler Abul Cassim, which it bears even to
the present day.[21]

14. CHAPTER XIV.

The hopes of Andalusia revived as this mighty
host stretched in lengthening lines along its fertile
plains; from morn until night it continued
to pour along, with sound of drum and trumpet;
it was led on by the proudest nobles and bravest
cavaliers of the land, and, had it possessed arms
and discipline, might have undertaken the conquest
of the world.

After a few days march, Don Roderick arrived
in sight of the moslem army, encamped on the
banks of the Guadalete,[22] where that beautiful
stream winds through the fertile land of Xeres.
The infidel host was far inferior in number to the
christians, but then it was composed of hardy
and dexterous troops, seasoned to war, and admirably
armed. The camp shone gloriously in

the setting sun, and resounded with the clash of
cymbal, the note of the trumpet, and the neighing
of fiery Arabian steeds. There were swarthy
troops from every nation of the African coast,
together with legions from Syria and Egypt,
while the light Bedouins were careering about
the adjacent plain. What grieved and incensed
the spirits of the christian warriors, however, was
to behold, a little apart from the moslem host, an
encampment of Spanish cavaliers, with the banner
of Count Julian waving above their tents.
They were ten thousand in number, valiant and
hardy men, the most experienced of Spanish
soldiery, most of them having served in the
African wars; they were well armed and appointed
also, with the weapons of which the
count had beguiled his sovereign; and it was a
grievous sight to behold such good soldiers arrayed
against their country and their faith.

The christians pitched their tents about the
hour of vespers, at a short league distant from
the enemy, and remained gazing with anxiety
and awe upon this barbaric host that had caused
such terror and desolation in the land: for the
first sight of a hostile encampment in a country
disused to war, is terrible to the newly enlisted
soldier. A marvellous occurrence is recorded
by the Arabian chroniclers as having taken place
in the christian camp, but discreet Spanish

writers relate it with much modification, and consider
it a stratagem of the wily Bishop Oppas,
to sound the loyalty of the christian cavaliers.

As several leaders of the army were seated with
the bishop in his tent, conversing on the dubious
fortunes of the approaching contest, an ancient
pilgrim appeared at the entrance. He was bowed
down with years, his snowy beard descended to
his girdle, and he supported his tottering steps
with a palmer's staff. The cavaliers rose and
received him with great reverence as he advanced
within the tent. Holding up his withered
hand, “woe, woe to Spain!” exclaimed he, “for
the vial of the wrath of heaven is about to be
poured out. Listen warriors and take warning.
Four months since, having performed my pilgrimage
to the sepulchre of our Lord in Palestine,
I was on my return towards my native land.
Wearied and way-worn, I lay down one night to
sleep beneath a palm tree, by the side of a fountain,
when I was awakened by a voice saying
unto me, in soft accents, `Son of sorrow, why
sleepest thou?' I opened my eyes and beheld one
of a fair and beauteous countenance, in shining
apparel and with glorious wings, standing by the
fountain; and I said `who art thou, who callest
upon me in this deep hour of the night?”'

“`Fear not,' replied the stranger, `I am an
angel from heaven, sent to reveal unto thee the

fate of thy country. Behold the sins of Roderick
have come up before God, and his anger is kindled
against him, and he has given him up to be
invaded and destroyed. Hasten then to Spain,
and seek the camp of thy countrymen. Warn
them that such only shall be saved as shall abandon
Roderick; but those who adhere to him shall
share his punishment, and shall fall under the
sword of the invader.”'

The pilgrim ceased, and passed forth from the
tent; certain of the cavaliers followed him to
detain him, that they might converse further with
him about these matters, but he was no where to
be found. The sentinel before the tent said, “I
saw no one come forth, but it was as if a blast
of wind passed by me, and there was a rustling
as of dry leaves.”

The cavaliers remained looking upon each
other with astonishment. The Bishop Oppas sat
with his eyes fixed upon the ground, and shadowed
by his overhanging brow. At length,
breaking silence, in a low and faltering voice,
“Doubtless,” said he, “this message is from God;
and since he has taken compassion upon us, and
given us notice of his impending judgment, it
behoves us to hold grave council, and determine
how best we may accomplish his will and avert
his displeasure.”

The chiefs still remained silent as men confounded.

Among them was a veteran noble
named Pelistes. He had distinguished himself
in the African wars, fighting side by side with
Count Julian, but the latter had never dared to
tamper with his faith, for he knew his stern integrity.
Pelistes had brought with him to the
camp his only son, who had never drawn a sword
except in tourney. When the young man saw
that the veterans held their peace, the blood
mantled in his cheek, and, overcoming his modesty,
he broke forth with a generous warmth:
“I know not, cavaliers,” said he, “what is passing
in your minds, but I believe this pilgrim to
be an envoy from the devil; for none else could
have given such dastard and perfidious counsel.
For my own part, I stand ready to defend my
king, my country and my faith; I know no
higher duty than this, and if God thinks fit to
strike me dead in the performance of it, his sovereign
will be done!”

When the young man had risen to speak, his
father had fixed his eyes upon him with a grave
and stern demeanour, leaning upon a two handed
sword. As soon as the youth had finished, Pelistes
embraced him with a father's fondness.
“Thou hast spoken well, my son,” said he; “If
I held my peace at the counsel of this losel pilgrim,
it was but to hear thy opinion, and to learn
whether thou wert worthy of thy lineage and of

the training I had given thee. Hadst thou counselled
otherwise than thou hast done, hadst thou
shown thyself craven and disloyal; so help me
God, I would have struck off thy head with this
weapon which I hold in my hand. But thou hast
counselled like a loyal and a christian knight,
and I thank God for having given me a son worthy
to perpetuate the honours of my line. As to
this pilgrim, be he saint or be he devil, I care not;
this much I promise, that if I am to die in defence
of my country and my king, my life shall be a
costly purchase to the foe. Let each man make
the same resolve, and I trust we shall yet prove
the pilgrim a lying prophet.” The words of Pelistes
roused the spirits of many of the cavaliers;
others, however, remained full of anxious foreboding,
and when this fearful prophecy was rumoured
about the camp, as it presently was by
the emissaries of the bishop, it spread awe and
dismay among the soldiery.

15. CHAPTER XV.

On the following day the two armies remained
regarding each other with wary but menacing
aspect. About noontide King Roderick
sent forth a chosen force of five hundred horse
and two hundred foot, the best armed of his
host, to skirmish with the enemy, that, by gaining
some partial advantage, they might raise the
spirits of the army. They were led on by
Theodomir, the same Gothic noble who had signalized
himself by first opposing the invasion of
the moslems.

The christian squadrons paraded with flying
pennons in the valley which lay between the
armies. The Arabs were not slow in answering
their defiance. A large body of horsemen sallied
forth to the encounter, together with three
hundred of the followers of Count Julian. There
was hot skirmishing about the field and on the

banks of the river; many gallant feats were displayed
on either side, and many valiant warriors
were slain. As the night closed in, the trumpets
from either camp summoned the troops to retire
from the combat. In this day's action the christians
suffered greatly in the loss of their distinguished
cavaliers; for it is the noblest spirits
who venture most, and lay themselves open to
danger; and the moslem soldiers had instructions
to single out the leaders of the adverse host.
All this is said to have been devised by the perfidious
Bishop Oppas, who had secret communications
with the enemy, while he influenced the
councils of the king; and who trusted that by this
skirmishing warfare the power of the christian
troops would be cut off, and the rest disheartened.

On the following morning a larger force was
ordered out to skirmish, and such of the soldiery
as were unarmed were commanded to stand
ready to seize the horses and strip off the armour
of the killed and wounded. Among the most
illustrious of the warriors who fought that day
was Pelistes, the Gothic noble who had so
sternly checked the tongue of the Bishop Oppas.
He led to the field a large body of his own vassals
and retainers, and of cavaliers trained up in
his house, who had followed him to the wars in
Africa, and who looked up to him more as a

father than a chieftain. Beside him was his
only son, who now for the first time was fleshing
his sword in battle. The conflict that day was
more general and bloody than the day preceding;
the slaughter of the christian warriors was
immense, from their lack of defensive armour;
and as nothing could prevent the flower of the
Gothic chivalry from spurring to the combat,
the field was strewed with the bodies of the
youthful nobles. None suffered more, however,
than the warriors of Pelistes. Their
leader himself was bold and hardy, and prone
to expose himself to danger; but years and
experience had moderated his early fire; his
son, however, was eager to distinguish himself
in this, his first essay, and rushed with impetuous
ardour into the hottest of the battle. In vain his
father called to caution him; he was ever in the
advance, and seemed unconscious of the perils
that surrounded him. The cavaliers and vassals
of his father followed him with devoted zeal,
and many of them paid for their loyalty with their
lives. When the trumpets sounded in the evening
for retreat, the troops of Pelistes were the
last to reach the camp. They came slowly and
mournfully, and much decreased in number.
Their veteran commander was seated on his
war-horse, but the blood trickled from the greaves
of his armour. His valiant son was borne on
the shields of his vassals; when they laid him
on the earth near to where the king was standing,
they found that the heroic youth had expired
of his wounds. The cavaliers surrounded the
body and gave utterance to their grief, but the
father restrained his agony, and looked on with
the stern resignation of a soldier.

Don Roderick surveyed the field of battle with
a rueful eye, for it was covered with the mangled
bodies of his most illustrious warriors; he
saw, too, with anxiety, that the common people,
unused to war and unsustained by discipline,
were harassed by incessant toils and dangers,
and were cooling in their zeal and courage.

The crafty Bishop Oppas marked the internal
trouble of the king, and thought a favourable moment
had arrived to sway him to his purpose.
He called to his mind the various portents and
prophecies which had forerun their present danger.
“Let not my lord the king,” said he,
“make light of these mysterious revelations,
which appear to be so disasterously fulfilling.
The hand of heaven appears to be against us.
Destruction is impending over our heads. Our
troops are rude and unskilful; but slightly armed,
and much cast down in spirit. Better is it that
we should make a treaty with the enemy, and,
by granting part of his demands, prevent the
utter ruin of our country. If such counsel be

acceptable to my lord the king, I stand ready to
depart upon an embassy to the moslem camp.”

Upon hearing these words, Pelistes, who had
stood in mournful silence, regarding the dead
body of his son, burst forth with honest indignation.
“By this good sword,” said he, “the man
who yields such dastard counsel deserves death
from the hand of his countrymen rather than
from the foe; and, were it not for the presence
of the king, may I forfeit salvation if I would
not strike him dead upon the spot.”

The bishop turned an eye of venom upon
Pelistes. “My lord,” said he, “I, too, bear a weapon,
and know how to wield it. Were the
king not present you would not dare to menace,
nor should you advance one step without my
hastening to meet you.”

The king interposed between the jarring nobles,
and rebuked the impetuosity of Pelistes, but at
the same time rejected the counsel of the bishop.
“The event of this conflict,” said he, “is in the
hand of God; but never shall my sword return to
its scabbard while an infidel invader remains
within the land.”

He then held a council with his captains, and it
was determined to offer the enemy general battle
on the following day. A herald was despatched
defying Taric ben Zeyad to the contest, and the
defiance was gladly accepted by the moslem

chieftain.[23] Don Roderick then formed the plan
of action, and assigned to each commander his
several station, after which he dismissed his officers,
and each one sought his tent, to prepare by
diligence or repose for the next day's eventful
contest.

16. CHAPTER XVI.

Taric ben Zeyad had been surprised by the
valour of the christian cavaliers in the recent battles,
and at the number and apparent devotion of
the troops which accompanied the king to the
field. The confident defiance of Don Roderick,
increased his surprise. When the herald had retired,
he turned an eye of suspicion on Count
Julian. “Thou hast represented thy countrymen,”
said he, “as sunk in effeminacy and lost to
all generous impulse; yet I find them fighting
with the courage and the strength of lions. Thou
hast represented thy king as detested by his subjects
and surrounded by secret treason, but I behold
his tents whitening the hills and dales, while
thousands are hourly flocking to his standard.
Woe unto thee if thou hast dealt deceitfully with
us, or betrayed us with guileful words.”

Don Julian retired to his tent in great trouble
of mind, and fear came upon him that the Bishop
Oppas might play him false; for it is the lot of
traitors ever to distrust each other. He called

to him the same page who had brought him the
letter from Florinda, revealing the story of her
dishonour.

“Thou knowest, my trusty page,” said he,
“that I have reared thee in my household, and
cherished thee above all thy companions. If
thou hast loyalty and affection for thy lord, now
is the time to serve him. Hie thee to the christian
camp, and find thy way to the tent of the
Bishop Oppas. If any one ask thee who thou
art, tell them thou art of the household of the
bishop, and bearer of missives from Cordova.
When thou art admitted to the presence of the
bishop, show him this ring, and he will commune
with thee in secret. Then tell him Count Julian
greets him as a brother, and demands how the
wrongs of his daughter Florinda are to be redressed.
Mark well his reply, and bring it word for
word. Have thy lips closed, but thine eyes and
ears open; and observe every thing of note in
the camp of the king. So, speed thee on thy
errand—away, away!”

The page hastened to saddle a Barbary steed,
fleet as the wind, and of a jet black colour, so as
not to be easily discernable in the night. He
girded on a sword and dagger, slung an Arab
bow with a quiver of arrows at his side, and a
buckler at his shoulder. Issuing out of the
camp, he sought the banks of the Guadalete, and

proceeded sliently along its stream, which reflected
the distant fires of the christian camp.
As he passed by the place which had been the
scene of the recent conflict, he heard, from time
to time, the groan of some expiring warrior who
had crawled among the reeds on the margin of
the river; and sometimes his steed stepped
cautiously over the mangled bodies of the slain.
The young page was unused to the sights of war,
and his heart beat quick within him. He was
hailed by the sentinels as he approached the
christian camp, and, on giving the reply taught
him by Count Julian, was conducted to the tent
of the Bishop Oppas.

The bishop had not yet retired to his couch.
When he beheld the ring of Count Julian, and
heard the words of his message, he saw that the
page was one in whom he might confide. “Hasten
back to thy lord,” said he, “and tell him to
have faith in me and all shall go well. As yet
I have kept my troops out of the combat. They
are all fresh, well armed, and well appointed.
The king has confided to myself, aided by the
princes Evan and Siseburto, the command of
a wing of the army. Tomorrow, at the hour of
noon, when both armies are in the heat of action,
we will pass over with our forces to the moslems.
But I claim the compact made with
Taric ben Zeyad, that my nephews be placed in

dominion over Spain, and tributary only to the
Caliph of Damascus.” With this traitorous message
the page departed. He led his black steed
by the bridle to present less mark for observation,
as he went stumbling along near the expiring
fires of the camp. On passing the last
outpost, when the guards were half slumbering
on their arms, he was overheard and summoned,
but leaped lightly into the saddle and put spurs
to his steed. An arrow whistled by his ear, and
two more stuck in the target which he had
thrown upon his back. The clatter of swift
hoofs echoed behind him, but he had learnt of
the Arabs to fight and fly. Plucking a shaft from
his quiver, and turning and rising in the stirrups
as his courser galloped at full speed, he drew
the arrow to the head and launched it at his pursuer.
The twang of the bow-string was followed
by the crash of armour, and a deep groan, as
the horseman tumbled to the earth. The page
pursued his course without further molestation,
and arrived at the moslem camp before the
break of day.

17. CHAPTER XVII.

A light had burned throughout the night in
the tent of the king, and anxious thoughts and
dismal visions troubled his repose. If he fell into
a slumber, he beheld in his dreams the shadowy
phantoms of the necromantic tower, or the injured
Florinda, pale and dishevelled, imprecating
the vengeance of heaven upon his head. In the
mid-watches of the night, when all was silent except
the footstep of the sentinel, pacing before his
tent, the king rose from his couch, and walking
forth looked thoughtfully upon the martial scene
before him. The pale crescent of the moon hung
over the moorish camp, and dimly lighted up the
windings of the Guadalete. The heart of the
king was heavy and oppressed; but he felt only
for himself, says Antonio Agapida, he thought nothing
of the perils impending over the thousands
of devoted subjects in the camp below him;
sleeping, as it were, on the margin of their
graves. The faint clatter of distant hoofs, as if
in rapid flight, reached the monarch's ear, but

the horsemen were not to be described. At that
very hour, and along the shadowy banks of that
river, here and there gleaming with the scanty
moonlight, passed the fugitive messenger of
Count Julian, with the plan of the next day's
treason.

The day had not yet dawned. when the sleepless
and impatient monarch summoned his attendants
and arrayed himself for the field. He then
sent for the venerable Bishop Urbino, who had
accompanied him to the camp, and, laying aside
his regal crown, he knelt with head uncovered,
and confessed his sins before the holy man. After
this a solemn mass was performed in the royal
tent, and the eucharist administered to the monarch.
When these ceremonies were concluded,
he besought the archbishop to depart forthwith
for Cordova, there to await the issue of the battle,
and to be ready to bring forward reinforcements
and supplies. The archbishop saddled his mule
and departed just as the faint blush of morning
began to kindle in the east. Already the camp
resounded with the thrilling call of the trumpet,
the clank of armour, and the tramp and neigh of
steeds. As the archbishop passed through the
camp, he looked with a compassionate heart on
this vast multitude, of whom so many were soon
to perish. The warriors pressed to kiss his
hand, and many a cavalier full of youth and fire

received his benediction, who was to lie stiff and
cold before the evening.

When the troops were marshalled for the
field, Don Roderick prepared to sally forth in
the state and pomp with which the Gothic kings
were wont to go to battle. He was arrayed in
robes of gold brocade; his sandals were embroidered
with pearls and diamonds; he had a sceptre
in his hand, and he wore a regal crown resplendent
with inestimable jewels. Thus gorgeously
apparelled, he ascended a lofty chariot
of ivory, the axle-trees of which were of silver,
and the wheels and pole covered with plates of
burnished gold. Above his head was a canopy
of cloth of gold embossed with armorial devices,
and studded with precious stones. [24] This sumptuous
chariot was drawn by milk-white horses,
with caparisons of crimson velvet, embroidered
with pearls. A thousand youthful cavaliers surrounded
the car; all of the noblest blood and
bravest spirit; all knighted by the king's own
hand, and sworn to defend him to the last.

When Roderick issued forth in this resplendent
state, says an Arabian writer, surrounded
by his guards in gilded armour and waving plumes
and scarfs and surcoats of a thousand dyes, it
was as if the sun were emerging in the dazzling

chariot of the day from amidst the glorious clouds
of morning.

As the royal car rolled along in front of the
squadrons, the soldiers shouted with admiration.
Don Roderick waved his sceptre and addressed
them from his lofty throne, reminding them of
the horror and desolation which had already been
spread through the land by the invaders. He
called upon them to summon up the ancient valour
of their race and avenge the blood of their
brethren. “One day of glorious fighting,” said
he, “and this infidel horde will be driven into the
sea or will perish beneath your swords. Forward
bravely to the fight; your families are behind
you praying for your success; the invaders
of your country are before you; God is above to
bless his holy cause, and your king leads you to
the field.” The army shouted with one accord,
“Forward to the foe, and death be his portion
who shuns the encounter!”

The rising sun began to shine along the glistening
waters of the Guadalete as the Moorish
army, squadron after squadron, came sweeping
down a gentle declivity to the sound of martial
music. Their turbans and robes, of various dyes
and fashions, gave a splendid appearance to their
host; as they marched, a cloud of dust arose and
partly hid them from the sight, but still there
would break forth flashes of steel and gleams of

burnished gold, like rays of vivid lightning;
while the sound of drum and trumpet, and the
lash of moorish cymbal, were as the warlike
thunder within that stormy cloud of battle.

As the armies drew near each other, the sun
disappeared among gathering clouds, and the
gloom of the day was increased by the columns
of dust which rose from either host. At length
the trumpets sounded for the encounter. The
battle commenced with showers of arrows, stones
and javelins. The christian foot soldiers fought
to disadvantage, the greater part being destitute
of helm or buckler. A battalion of light Arabian
horsemen, led by a Greek renegado named Maguel
el Rumi, careered in front of the christian
line, launching their darts, and then wheeling off
beyond the reach of the missiles hurled after
them. Theodomir now brought up his seasoned
troops into the action, seconded by the veteran
Pelistes, and in a little while the battle became
furious and promiscuous. It was glorious to behold
the old Gothic valour shining forth in this
hour of fearful trial. Wherever the moslems fell,
the christians rushed forward, seized upon their
horses, and stripped them of their armour and
their weapons. They fought desperately and
successfully, for they fought for their country and
their faith. The battle raged for several hours;
the field was strown with slain, and the Moors,

overcome by the multitude and fury of their foes
began to falter.

When Taric beheld his troops retreating before
the enemy, he threw himself before them
and, rising in his stirrups, “Oh moslems! conquerors
of Africa!” cried he, “whither would
you fly? The sea is behind you, the enemy before;
you have no hope but in your valour and
the help of God. Do as I do and the day is
ours!”

With these words he put spurs to his horse
and sprung among the enemy, striking to right
and left, cutting down and destroying, while his
steed, fierce as himself, trampled upon the foot
soldiers, and tore them with his teeth. At this
moment a mighty shout arose in various parts of
the field; the noontide hour had arrived. The
Bishop Oppas with the two princes, who had
hitherto kept their bands out of the fight, suddenly
went over to the enemy, and turned their weapons
upon their astonished countrymen. From
that moment the fortune of the day was changed,
and the field of battle became a scene of wild
confusion and bloody massacre. The christians
knew not whom to contend with, or whom to
trust. It seemed as if madness had seized upon
their friends and kinsmen, and that their worst
enemies were among themselves.

The courage of Don Roderick rose with his

danger. Throwing off the cumbrous robes of
royalty and descending from his car, he sprang
upon his steed Orelia, grasped his lance and
buckler, and endeavoured to rally his retreating
troops. He was surrounded and assailed by
a multitude of his own traitorous subjects, but
defended himself with wondrous prowess. The
enemy thickened around him; his loyal band of
cavaliers were slain, bravely fighting in his defence;
the last that was seen of the king was in
the midst of the enemy, dealing death at every
blow.

A complete panic fell upon the christians; they
threw away their arms and fled in all directions.
They were pursued with dreadful slaughter, until
the darkness of the night rendered it impossible
to distinguish friend from foe. Taric then
called off his troops from the pursuit, and took
possession of the royal camp; and the couch
which had been pressed so uneasily on the preceding
night by Don Roderick, now yielded
sound repose to his conqueror.[25]

18. CHAPTER XVIII.

On the morning after the battle, the Arab
leader, Taric ben Zeyad, rode over the bloody
field of the Guadalete, strewed with the ruins
of those splendid armies, which had so lately
passed like glorious pageants along the river
banks. There Moor and christian, horseman
and horse, lay gashed with hideous wounds;
and the river, still red with blood, was filled
with the bodies of the slain. The gaunt Arab
was as a wolf roaming through the fold he had
laid waste. On every side his eye revelled on
the ruin of the country, on the wrecks of haughty
Spain. There lay the flower of her youthful
chivalry, mangled and destroyed, and the
strength of her yeomanry prostrated in the
dust. The Gothic noble lay confounded with
his vassals; the peasant with the prince; all
ranks and dignities were mingled in one bloody
massacre.

When Taric had surveyed the field, he caused
the spoils of the dead and the plunder of the
camp to be brought before him. The booty
was immense. There were massy chains, and
rare jewels of gold; pearls and precious stones;
rich silks and brocades, and all other luxurious
decorations in which the Gothic nobles had indulged
in the latter times of their degeneracy.
A vast amount of treasure was likewise found,
which had been brought by Roderick for the
expenses of the war.

Taric then ordered that the bodies of the
moslem warriors should be interred; as for
those of the christians, they were gathered in
heaps, and vast pyres of wood were formed on
which they were consumed. The flames of
these pyres rose high in the air, and were seen
afar off in the night; and when the christians
beheld them from the neighbouring hills they
beat their breasts and tore their hair, and lamented
over them as over the funeral fires of
their country. The carnage of that battle infected
the air for two whole months, and bones
were seen lying in heaps upon the field for
more than forty years; nay, when ages had
past and gone, the husbandman, turning up the
soil, would still find fragments of Gothic cuirasses
and helms, and moorish scimitars, the relics
of that dreadful fight.

For three days the Arabian horsemen pursued
the flying christians; hunting them over
the face of the country; so that but a scanty
number of that mighty host escaped to tell the
tale of their disaster.

Taric ben Zeyad considered his victory incomplete
so long as the Gothic monarch survived;
he proclaimed great rewards, therefore,
to whomsoever should bring Roderick to him,
dead or alive. A diligent search was accordingly
made in every direction, but for a long
time in vain; at length a soldier brought to
Taric the head of a christian warrior, on which
was a cap decorated with feathers and precious
stones. The Arab leader received it as the
head of the unfortunate Roderick, and sent it,
as a trophy of his victory, to Muza ben Nosier,
who, in like manner, transmitted it to the caliph
at Damascus. The Spanish historians, however,
have always denied its identity.

A mystery has ever hung, and ever must continue
to hang, over the fate of King Roderick,
in that dark and doleful day of Spain. Whether
he went down amidst the storm of battle, and
atoned for his sins and errors by a patriot grave,
or whether he survived to repent of them in
hermit exile, must remain matter of conjecture
and dispute. The learned Archbishop Rodrigo,
who has recorded the events of this disastrous

field, affirms that Roderick fell beneath the
vengeful blade of the traitor Julian, and thus
expiated with his blood his crime against the
hapless Florinda; but the archbishop stands
alone in his record of the fact. It seems generally
admitted that Orelia, the favourite war-horse
of Don Roderick, was found entangled in
a marsh on the borders of the Guadalete, with
the sandals and mantle and royal insignia of
the king lying close by him. The river at this
place ran broad and deep, and was encumbered
with the dead bodies of warriors and steeds; it
has been supposed, therefore, that he perished
in the stream; but his body was not found
within its waters.

When several years had passed away, and
men's minds, being restored to some degree of
tranquility, began to occupy themselves about
the events of this dismal day, a rumour arose
that Roderick had escaped from the carnage
on the banks of the Guadalete, and was still
alive. It was said, that having from a rising
ground caught a view of the whole field of
battle, and seen that the day was lost, and
his army flying in all directions, he likewise
sought his safety in flight. It is added, that
the Arab horsemen, while scouring the mountains
in quest of fugitives, found a shepherd
arrayed in the royal robes, and brought him

before the conqueror, believing him to be the
king himself. Count Julian soon dispelled the
error. On being questioned the trembling rustic
declared, that while tending his sheep in the
folds of the mountains, there came a cavalier
on a horse wearied and spent and ready to sink
beneath the spur. That the cavalier with an
authoritative voice and menacing air commanded
him to exchange garments with him, and
clad himself in his rude garb of sheep skin, and
took his crook and his scrip of provisions, and
continued up the rugged defiles of the mountains
leading towards Castile, until he was lost
to view.[26]

This tradition was fondly cherished by
many, who clung to the belief in the existence
of their monarch as their main hope for the
redemption of Spain. It was even affirmed
that he had taken refuge, with many of his host,
in an island of the “Ocean sea,” from whence
he might yet return once more to elevate his
standard, and battle for the recovery of his
throne.

Year after year, however, elapsed, and nothing
was heard of Don Roderick; yet, like
Sebastian of Portugal, and Arthur of England,
his name continued to be a rallying point for

popular faith, and the mystery of his end to give
rise to romantic fables. At length, when generation
after generation had sunk into the grave,
and near two centuries had passed and gone,
traces were said to be discovered that threw a
light on the final fortunes of the unfortunate
Roderick. At that time, Don Alphonso the
Great, King of Leon, had wrested the city of
Viseo in Lusitania from the hands of the moslems.
As his soldiers were ranging about the
city and its environs, one of them discovered
in a field, outside of the walls, a small chapel
or hermitage, with a sepulchre in front, on
which was inscribed this epitaph in Gothic
characters.

HIC REQUIESCIT RUDERICUS,
ULTIMUS REX GOTHORUM.

Here lies Roderick,
The last king of the Goths.

It has been believed by many that this was
the veritable tomb of the monarch, and that in
this hermitage he had finished his days in solitary
penance. The warrior, as he contemplated
the supposed tomb of the once haughty Roderick,
forgot all his faults and errors, and shed a
soldier's tear over his memory; but when his

thoughts turned to Count Julian, his patriotic
indignation broke forth, and with his dagger he
inscribed a rude malediction on the stone.

“Accursed,” said he, “be the impious and
headlong vengeance of the traitor Julian. He
was a murderer of his king; a destroyer of his
kindred; a betrayer of his country. May his
name be bitter in every mouth, and his memory
infamous to all generations.”

Here ends the legend of Don Roderick.