University of Virginia Library

8. VIII.

The respective armies of the sovereign and the rebel,
after several skirmishes, indecisive and only stimulating
a wish for a closer struggle, met, at length, under the
walls of the capital city of Toledo. The close strife
of the sword, the spear, and the cleaving battle-axe,
came terribly on, after the manner of the time, and with
a revival of much of that sanguinary valour long suspended
in their history, but which, at one time, had made
even the Imperial Queen of Cities, the mighty Rome,
cower and give back before the Gothic arms. Then
rose the shout and the hurrah—the cry of conquest and
the shriek of pain—the concentrated hate and malignity
so naturally the result of a strife in which people of the
same land and origin stand up in arms against each
other. The insolent hope of rebellion rose into a desperate
halloo, mingled with the confident cry of legitimate
power. Both were anxious, prompted by leading, but
different motives. Never were the arms of opposing
arrays more equally balanced. The battle was protracted
from sunrise to sunset; now approaching, and now receding
from beneath, the walls of Toledo. The citizens
thronged upon the towers and the battlements, looking
forth in anxious doubt upon the progress of the strife.
Twice did the insurrectionists fall back in panic before the
well-ordered array of the sovereign. Twice did Witiza,
with the golden horns of royalty upon his brow, and

mounted upon a car blazing with jewels, such as was common
to all the luxurious monarchs of the Goths, rush
forward upon the retreating thousands of Roderick, crying,
“Victory!—victory! gallant nobles and fair gentlemen
of Spain—one more blow—one more blow, and a
rich prize for the head of the traitor.” But such was
not the destiny of the insurgent chief. He threw
himself into the thick of battle. He stood in the path
of his retreating troops—his own sword cleft the neck
of the foremost fugitive, and his voice rang, like a clear
note from the full-throated trumpet, in a peal more full
of terror than any shock of the foe. He cheered them
with a new hope—he led them forward with a fresh
strength and better decision, and, for the third time, the
armies clashed spears in opposing battle. How close
was that struggle—how doubtful the result! What then
were the hopes of insurrection—what then the doubts
of legitimacy! The stake was great alike, to the
sovereign and the rebel; and the efforts of both were
worthy of the adventure. For a long time the battle
hung in suspense—a feather's weight, a word more or
less, on either side, had determined the issue; and, duly
conscious of this truth, Roderick determined to single
out, and by opposing manfully the danger in its very
head, if possible, to make it less. Through the thick
masses he pressed forward on his way. Amid the
crowd and the dust, defying the hostile spear, and dashing
aside the friendly, the strong-armed rebel rushed
daringly to grapple with his king. Witiza beheld his approach,
and readily conceived his object. He shrank
not from the encounter, but, leaping from his car of
battle, armed only with battle-axe and sword, he stood
upon a small eminence, and waved his hand in signal to
his enemy. His nobles gave back at his bidding, and,
as if by tacit consent, the two armies threw up their
crossed spears and suspended their strokes, in breathless
anticipation of the single combat of the chiefs.

“I have thee, tyrant!—I have thee now, for vengeance!”

cried Roderick as he came; and he lifted his battle-axe
to his shoulder, and rushed fearlessly up the hill.

“Thou comest for justice, and thou shalt have it,
traitor!” cried the monarch, who knew how much he
might rely on his ancient prowess.

And then came the stroke and the clash—the affronting
thrust of the sword and the resolute parry, the keen
eye guiding it in the true direction, so that it touched
not. The king gave back before the rebel, and then
rose, with a thrilling joy, the shout from the force of the
insurgents; then trembled the ranks of the sovereign,
and they would have rushed forward to his aid; but
when they looked again, it was Roderick who had shrunk
—Witiza pressing upon him, and the rebel partly upon his
knee. Once more did he recover to the attack, and so
stoutly plied he his blows that the weary arm of the
monarch might well have failed to meet them with corresponding
vivacity. But Witiza had an old renown.
Had he not met the insurgent Basques, and overthrown
the Tarragonese nobles, and driven back the invading
Franks, until his name became a terror to each foreign
power? Should he now give back before rebellion?
He did not; he knew the strength of his arm—the
superiority of his skill—and his soul was fearless as his
steel was true. He put aside his enemy's blows, and
dreadful and thick were his own. It was Roderick's
turn to shrink—to give way—to flee. He yielded to
what seemed his destiny, and the brave monarch pressed
hard upon the rebel, as, fighting and facing to the last,
he descended, still battling, from the eminence where, in
the sight of both armies, the combat had been going on.
At that instant a voice arose from the crowd of insurgent
chiefs—a solemn, deep voice of inquiry. It came
from the lips of the blind Theodofred.

“Speak!” cried he to the warriors around him—
“speak! tell me how the fight goes; for I hear not the
shouts of our people, and my eyes see not the form of
my son.”

Roderick heard—and shame and a new fury grew
active in his bosom.

“I fight still, my father. Thou shalt have vengeance,
though thine eyes behold it not. Ho! Witiza, I
cross swords with thee again!” and he resolutely rushed
up the hill. The monarch met him, unrelaxing, with his
ancient spirit.

“Thou art not stronger, nor I weaker, thou traitor,
than when I struck with thee before. Thy hope shall
be the same.”

And they renewed the strife; but scarcely had it begun,
when an arrow—a single arrow—perfidiously shot
from the insurgent ranks, with deadly aim, penetrated
the eye of Witiza. The monarch reeled beneath the
shaft, and his lifted battle-axe struck wide of the head
of his enemy, upon which it was otherwise unerringly
descending. In that moment he cried—

“Ha! slave, thou hast slain thy king! It is over.”

Dizzy and dazzled, he reeled about like one drunk
with wine, and the steel of Roderick's weapon then
penetrated his bosom. He clasped the weapon-blade
in his hands, and fell heavily to the earth. The star of
rebellion was triumphant and in the ascendant, while
that of Witiza went down in blood. The king of the
Goths lay prostrate beneath his conqueror, the foot of
the rebel was upon his breast, and the cry of horror
from the one array, and the shout of exultation from the
other, went up in a fierce diapason, as thus, bestriding
his victim, his sharp blade smote the neck of the sovereign,
till the gray head rolled from it along the hill.
That event determined the conflict—the courage of
Witiza's army fell with its leader; and, now a confusion,
and now a rout, they fled before their enemy. The
streets of the neighbouring city of Toledo, to which they
retreated for shelter, ran thick with their blood, as,
without offering resistance, they sunk under the swords
of their pursuers. In that hour, while yet the conqueror
stood over the body of his sovereign, and on the spot

where he had slain him, three of his bravest warriors
seized upon him, and pinioned him to the earth. A
dozen crossed their spears over his body, while in his
sight waved as many swords.

“Swear!” cried the chiefs.

“Swear!” cried the people.

“Swear as a Gothic noble!” cried the nobles.

“Swear as a Goth!” cried the common soldiery.

“I swear as a Goth—I swear as a noble!” was the
response of Roderick.

“Swear to be honourable!” cried one of the former.

“Swear to be merciful!” cried one of the latter.

“Swear to be true!” cried the noble.

“Swear to be just!” cried the soldier.

“In the name of the great God of heaven and earth
—the friend of man—the protector of the Goths—the
father of the most holy faith, I, Roderick, son of Theodofred,
and true descendant from Chindaswind the Goth,
I swear to you, nobles of the Goths—I swear to be honourable
and true. I swear to you, people of the Goth—
I swear to be just and merciful. God sees, God hears!
I have sworn!”

“Bring the buckler—he has sworn,” was the cry
of those around him. The buckler was brought, and,
raising the successful rebel from the earth, they placed
him upon it, pronouncing him their king, and the king
of the Goths. As with one voice, the vast multitude
then swore allegiance to one destined to be the last
monarch of their once mighty empire.