University of Virginia Library

6. BOOK SIXTH.

1. CHAPTER I

The Arabs of the East, under the Caliph Almanzor, had swept, with the sword of
the prophet, the Oriental nations. The progress of conquest had brought them to
the shores of the Atlantic, and they already looked forth upon the narrow straits
which lie between the Pillars of Hercules, with the impatient yearnings of a desire
which was yet beyond their power to satisfy. To overpass this narrow limit, to
possess themselves of the fertile regions which lay beyond, was an appetite the more
keenly felt in consequence of the obstacles which opposed it. Of the wealth and
luxury of the Gothic empire of Spain, they had full assurance; of its feebleness,
however, they formed no adequate conjectures. It had been fortunate for Spain, that
the defence of Tingitania, or that small portion of Western Africa which still belonged
to the empire of Roderick, had been intrusted to a veteran soldier so renowned as
Julian of Consuegra. Julian was one of the greatest warriors of his time. With a
natural predilection for war, his experience had confirmed the tendencies of his
genius. Skilled in all the military arts of the period, he was beloved of the soldiery.
Ten thousand well-appointed warriors obeyed his paramount authority; and, placed
upon the borders of the kingdom, and constantly threatened by an active and imposing
enemy, they had preserved their courage and military vigilance. They suffered from
none of those enervating tastes and luxuries which enfeebled, in the heart of the
kingdom, the great body of the people to which they belonged. They knew nothing
of those vices which disgraced the court, and found their way from that polluted fount,
through all the arteries of the social system. They constituted, on the frontiers of
Tingitania, a powerful military colony. Their virtues, in times of comparative security,
were exercised by the labors of the field, and by those toils of the hunter and
the peasant by which men's muscles are rendered equally enduring and elastic. A
hardy simplicity of character made them heedless of luxuries, and the occasional demands
of war had no other effect than to increase the charm of their rude mode of
life, when a return of peace or quiet enabled them temporarily to enjoy it. Count
Julian, whom, for many years, they had known as their only leader, was, in some
sort, their patriarch. He regarded his followers with the friendly interest of one who
had always secured their fidelity; and his frankness of manner, great bravery, and
the even measure with which he administered justice among them, left him without
a competitor in their confidence and affections. They knew little of the Gothic kingdom—nothing

of Roderick or his predecessor; had little interest in the internal affairs of
the empire, and, as has been already in part intimated in our history, would have
been much more ready to follow their immediate military leader, at the expression of
his bare will, as absolute subjects, than they would have been to throw up their caps
in acknowledging the elevation to the throne of the sovereign born in the purple!
That such, indeed, had not been the case on the ascent of Roderick, was due rather
to the loyalty, or, it may be, to the prudence of Julian, than to any notion which his
followers entertained of what was due to legitimacy.

Contending with such a people only, the Arabs, whose otherwise victorious arms
had borne the crescent of Mahomet over the proudest cities of the East, could form
but an imperfect idea of the nation at large, whose interests they maintained in Tingitania.
Reasoning from what they know, of the valor of these men of the frontier,
they might very well entertain serious doubts of ever gaining foothold upon the
shores of Spain, to which their eager eyes were directed in equal hope and misgiving.
But, though this great conquest might yet appear beyond their grasp, the spirit of
Moslemism necessarily hurried on its warriors to the complete conquest of Western
Africa. The provence of Tingitania was too necessary to the integrity of Almagreb,
not to make it desirable that the military colony of Julian should be driven across
the straits. However brave and indomitable might be his ten thousand followers,
however skilful their commander, it was still beyond reasonable conjecture that they
should be able long to hold out against the mighty force which the standard of the
prophet could array for the completion of conquests. One hundred thousand veterans
were brought together for this purpose. From the seat of the caliphate, at Damascus,
Waled Almanzor, otherwise called by the Moslems, the “Sword of God,” had
issued his command to drive the Gothic Christians unto the waters of the sea. His
troops were free to this enterprise. His foes had sunk, in all other regions, before
the baleful influence of his prevailing star. Led by Muza Ben Nosier, one of the
most remarkable of all the warriors of the early ages, they were drawn together
from all parts of Almagreb. A mixed multitude, they sent up to the heavens the
separate cries of a thousand tribes of the great desert. A fiery race by nature, the
fanatic tenets of the prophet had given to their mood an intensity which, like the
famous artificial fire of the Greeks, was only heightened by the effort to extinguish
it. Impatient of opposition, as special instruments of eternal truth and vengeance,
they held life cheap in comparison with conquest. To perish in the prosecution of
their holy war, was to secure immunity for their sins and salvation for their souls; and
the pangs of a violent death, in this life, were more than compensated by the glowing
descriptions of sensual happiness, by which their prophet proposed to reward
them in their transition to the next. Light and vigorous, fearless and full of faith,
skilled in the use of their weapons, and rendered more so by actual conflict with a
thousand various tribes, they threw themselves forward upon the Goths of Tingitania,
with the reckless hardihood of men who had nothing to lose but all to gain, even
from the worst issues and results of battle.

Their great leader was a warrior after their own hearts. Muza Ben Nosier, when
summoned by the caliph to the command of Almagreb, was in his seventieth year;
but he had lost in age but little of the vigor and elasticity of youth. In several respects
he had undergone no change from the character which he had borne in youth.
Time, which subdues the blood in other veins, seemed only to have given a fresh
impetus to his. He was still the fiery warrior which he had been when he went
forth a humble follower in the armies of Mahomet. Religious fanaticism had
added to the force and fervor of his temper; and success, which, after a certain

space, seems to satisfy the cravings of most warriors, contributed only to the increase
of his desires in this respect. Fierce, yet cool and calm in his deportment—vindictive
and deceitful—impetuous in battle, but a most subtle politician—Muza was altogether
one of the most remarkable men of modern periods. That he was selfish,
mercenary, bloodthirsty and unjust, is probably natural enough to such a person.
This, perhaps, is to be understood as inevitable from his successful leadership of
such people as those who followed him to battle. There were veterans under him
not less remarkable—one of whom will become even more conspicuous than himself,
in the progress of this narrative.

The opening of the year seven hundred and ten, was an eventful period in the fortunes
of Gothic Spain. It found the fortresses of the Goths in Tingitania, everywhere
menaced by the power of the Moslems. Musa Ben Nosier led the assault
upon that of Ceuta, the most powerful, defended by Count Julian in person. The
forces of the latter, in Africa, were, as already said, about ten thousand men. Those
of the Arabs are said to have defied computation. The more cautious estimates of
the historian have placed them, however, at no less than ten times that number.
Confident in his strength and superiority, assured by continual success, Musa Ben
Nosier, disdaining the slow processes of siege, at once led his formidable array
against the Gothic towers. The genius of Mahommedanism has always preferred
to make its conquests by storm. From the rise of morn to the set of sun, his fierce
and active followers flung themselves with desperate hardihood against the ramparts
of Ceuta. They asked for no forbearance—they yielded none. The assailant who
looks not to his own danger, is not easily defeated. The swarthy sons of the desert
had never yet taken counsel from defeat. They disdained the cold considerations
of prudence. They went forward to conquer; and death, in this desire, was still a
conquest, sufficiently precious to reconcile them to all the danger. But, in this instance,
their fiery valor was in vain. The Goths of the frontier were worthy of the
old Romans, from whom it was their boast to have sprung. They were a stern and
stubborn people. If they lacked the peculiar fire of the Arab, they had a patient
doggedness of resolve which more than compensated for the deficiency. If they
were less lithe and active, they were more firm; and, with a power of resistance
such as the sullen rock opposes to the billows, on the edges of their own empire.
The children of the desert thus flung themselves upon the walls of Ceuta, only to
recoil, like broken billows of the sea, from the fast-rooted Pillars of Hercules. Their
fury, their numbers, their fanaticism; their rage of conquest, their scorn of death;
the wild cries with which they went into battle, the stormy clamor of the cymbal
and barbaric drum—were all fruitless. They were driven back, baffled and dispirited,
from the Gothic fortress; and, as they fled in confusion, Julian sallied forth, and a
terrible slaugher ensued among the flying columns. For once the Moslem despaired
of his prophet. The spell of his invincibility seemed broken. His progress was
fatally arrested, and even Muza, the fierce, the proud, the fanatic, trembled with the
conviction, that, in his defeat, the waves of Moslem conquest were to be stayed for
ever. Sore in spirit, discomfited, confounded, he sought the shelter of his camp,
and, in resolute seclusion from all his followers, declared to them the depth of his
affliction and disgrace.

Far different was the feeling within the walls of Ceuta. A natural, and not
unbecoming exultation filled the bosom of Count Julian. His followers gloried in
their successes, and boasted of their exploits. Gothic Tingitania rang with the
shouts of triumph, and the name of Julian was thrice honored with the grateful
applauses of his people. Gay lights shone from the house-tops, bonfires blazed
in the streets. Merry strains went up from terrace and balcony, and, in the general

impulse of rejoicing, beauty and innocence forgot that there were Moslem spoilers
in the land. If ever heart was satisfied with itself, it was that of Julian. He sat
within his chamber, meditating the victory which he had won, and the farther
duties which yet remained to his valor to perform. He thought with pride of the
applauses which he should win from Spain—the thanks of his sovereign, the shouts
of his people, of which these, that occasionally ascended to his ears, were so many
faint but expressive harbingers. Even at that moment the messenger was in the
court below, bearing the fatal missive from the dishonored Cava.

“In no hand but that of Julian of Consuegra, can I place the letter.”

Such was the answer of the courier to the attendant.

“Follow me.”

He did so, and stood in the presence of the warrior.

“From whence?” demanded the latter.

“From Spain—from the city of Toledo. I bring a letter from one who bade me
haste, and find my reward from Count Julian. The grass has not grown beneath
my feet.”

“'Tis well,” said Julian, slowly receiving the letter. Then addressing the attendant:
“Take him hence, and see him fed and comforted. Yet stay—remain!
From whom got you this missive?”

“I know not well. He was a Cambrian friar.”

“An evil race, methinks—a restless, troublesome—! The writing would seem
to be that of Cava!—of my child!”

Julian went aside, and with the letter still unopened within his grasp, trode slowly
the apartment. Pausing at the side opposite that where the messenger stood, he
contemplated the superscription of the letter with signs of emotion.

“I know not why, but something disturbs me. I feel a vague sense of evil.
This is the writing of my child, but how unlike! The line is uneven—the words
are interrupted. She writes not usually thus—and to me! The child has suffered—
she is sick! Jesu grant it be not worse! But this is a sorry weakness!”

He unfolded the missive as he spoke—drew near one of the cressets which burned
against the wall, and proceeded to read. On a sudden his cheek paled, then flushed—
a convulsion passed over his countenance and shook his frame. He looked round
him, and exclaimed:

“Ha! stay! where is this villain courier?”

Then, as his eye found him—the object which it sought—he crumpled the scrawl
in his hand, bounded forward, and before the astonished messenger was conscious
of his movements, he had grappled him about the neck. A simple effort sufficed
to bring him to the floor. The serf was as an infant in the clutches of the
strong man. He gasped—he could not speak—while the terrified attendant looked
on aghast, with horror and surprise. The scene lasted but an instant only.
As suddenly as he had taken hold upon his victim, did Julian release him from his
grasp. He rose slowly to an erect position, and, while the big veins stood out,
cord-like, upon his forehead, and big drops of sweat rose upon his brow, he moved
backward a few steps, seemingly, in the effort to recover himself. The courier
partly rose also, but, as if still apprehensive of danger, crouched once more upon
the floor.

“Rise!” said Julian.

The man obeyed him in silence.

“Hither—to me!”

He betrayed some reluctance to obey the farther command.

“Fear nothing! Nay, even though you prove false, fear nothing. Hither!”

The tones were hollow and strange. They did not assure the trembling messenger,
but he dared not hesitate. He approached; and, seizing one of the lights that
stood at hand, Julian thrust it close beside the countenance of the man, and steadily
gazed upon his features. The scrutiny lasted but an instant.

“He is, indeed, nothing but a courier. Take him hence.”

When he was gone, Julian once more unfolded the fatal letter, which had been
crushed in his grasp even before he had finished its perusal. Once more he took it
to the light, and with desperate determination proceeded to make himself master of
its contents. He did so. His hands fell at his side. The cruel paper escaped his
grasp. His eyes were lifted up in agony to heaven, and then closed as if in the
pangs of a death spasm. With the single words—

“My child! my child!”—

He sunk, in a convulsion, upon the floor of the aparment.

2. CHAPTER II.

Terrible indeed was the shock to the unhappy father. A man of intense passions,
of indomitable pride, of exquisite sensibility—for all these may, and do, frequently
exist together—thus dishonored by his sovereign at the very moment
when he was most exultant in the consciousness of having achieved for the kingdom
of that monarch one of the most important victories,—the revulsion of feeling
was actually so great as to choke, for the moment, all the most vital faculties of
his physical and mental nature. For more than two hours he lay unnoticed in his
swoon. His officers and followers were too busy without, in attendance upon their
duties, or in the enjoyment of those sports and revels which grew naturally out of
their recent triumph, to know any thing of the suffering of the strong man within.
It was by the slow recovery of his unassisted faculties, that he finally became relieved
from this situation. His eyes opened upon the scene around him. The cressets
were still burning upon the wall. The fatal letter of Cava lay beside him.
His convulsion had served in some degree to obliterate the impression of his misery.
He had but a vague, confused sense of suffering—an imperfect memory of a terrible
wo—dark, fathomless, eternal. But the sight of the scrawl, as he half rose from the
floor, restored his more perfect consciousness. He grasped it convulsively.

“It is no dream!” he exclaimed; “the truth is here—the cruel, horrible truth!
God of heaven, have I been reserved for this!”

He took the paper in his grasp. Once more he crumpled it in his hand, as if to
stifle its cruel tidings. Once more he unfolded it, and drew near to the lights. As
he read, the strong man grew once more convulsed with his agony. But, this time,
the pressure upon the heart and brain was somewhat lessened by the big drops which
gushed out of his burning eyes.

“My child! my poor child! why hast thou been abandoned of heaven? Why
was thy innocence no surety—no safeguard? Oh! brutal, bloody tyrant! Oh!
dark, viperous wretch! insatiable for spoil—heedless of honor and of virtue! But
I will set my foot upon thy neck! I will rend thee as the tiger rends the lamb! I
will gloat upon thy agonies in death! My child, my child! thou shalt not pray
vainly for the vengeance which is thy due!”

He strode the chamber with irregular but heavy steps, the letter clasped in his
hands—then, closing and lifting them to heaven, he paused.

“I must return to Spain—I must rescue the poor child from his grasp. I must
do this with the smile of one who knows no injury—who feels no hurt. I am desolate

at Ceuta—thus will I declare myself. I need my child, my comforter, at Ceuta.
On this plea will I get her from his arms—and then! oh! then—”

Voices were heard before the entrance. He paused, the door was unclosed, and
one of his officers appeared conducting a stranger.

“Who is this? Who art thou?”

The stranger answered:

“Let this man retire; then will I speak.”

“Be it so. Speak! Who art thou?”

The officer disappeared, The stranger advanced.

“Look on me. Thou knowest me.”

“No! I know thee not.”

“'Tis well.”

The stranger was of graceful and becoming form, and bore himself with an air
of natural majesty. The tones of his voice were sweet, but solemn. His garments
were those of a monk, but they were rent and stained by travel and exposure.
Julian perused him for a moment with an indifferent eye, which showed no sign of
recognition.

“Thou knowest me not; yet thou shouldst know me. I am Egiza, son to
Witiza!”

“Ha! thou aft he who sought my daughter to wife? Coward that thou art,
loving his unhappy maiden—thou in Spain, breathing the same atmosphere with
her—thou hast yet suffered her to fall a victim to this brutal tyrant. Methinks,
hadst thou but half manhood, didst thou cherish but a tittle of the passion which
thou didst profess, thy arm could have saved her from this cruel, killing wrong.
Thou wouldst have been taught by quickest instincts the moment of her danger;
thou wouldst have been nigh and powerful to save her when she cried aloud for
help. Methinks I hear her now—that voice! that innocent, entreating voice—it is
ringing in mine ears! Hark! dost thou not hear? `Save me! father! dear father!
Wilt thou not save me from this monster!”'

Julian assumed the attitude of one who listens—his finger uplifted—his head
thrown forward—his air that of one absorbed in attention. But he maintained the
attitude for an instant only. He turned abruptly upon his visitor:

“Thou didst not help! Perchance thou couldst not. Well, what brings thee
hither now?”

“To aid thee.”

“In what do I need thy help?”

“In vengeance!”

“Ha! true! There is that yet for us. But we must pluck the victim from the
monster—the lamb from the wolf! My child, still precious though dishonored,
flies to my love from the arms of this monster. We must smile for this! Put on
the lamb, approach meekly, play the hypocrite; and only show the teeth when the
precious innocent is safe from harm. Thou lovest her—thou hast loved her, young
man. I repent me that I did not yield her to thy love. But I nothing dreamed of
this. How should I dream of such indignity to child of mine! That this reckless
king should dare so high—should so presume on brutal appetite—should— But
this avails us nothing. Thou wouldst aid me—we would have our revenge. Well,
it shall be so. I must first remove my child from the embraces of this Roderick.”

“This is already done!”

“Ha! thou hast saved her?”

“She is saved?”

“How? Here?”

“In death? The beautiful Cava is no more among the living, unless it be with
the angelic hosts of heaven!”

“God! I thank thee! This one pang is spared me, that her blood crimsons not
these hands. Dear child! may the blessed have thee in keeping! Thou art with
thy mother, in heaven; Frandina, Cava—he who loved ye, and loved ye only,
stands alone on earth. He hath now but one work before him, and that must be
accomplished.”

A brief period was employed by the wretched sire in giving utterance to that
natural ebullition of passion which the terrible event occasioned in his soul; and
he then succeeded in so far subduing the expression of his agony, as to listen to a
long and painful narrative which Egiza had to relate. This over, Count Julian
summoned his attendants. A stern composure settled upon his features as they
made their appearance; and, commanding them to prepare an apartment for his
guest, he proceeded to shut himself in from every eye.

“Leave me, now,” he said in subdued accents. “I cannot hide the agony which
rends me, and it suits not that I should bear, in any presence, the expression of a
weakness which befits not my authority. This night for sorrow. When we again
meet, young man, it will be for other and sterner feelings. The attendant will lead
thee to a chamber. Sleep, if thou canst!”

With a stern gripe of the hand—such a pressure as one gives who feels how
inadequate are words to the earnest thoughts which he yet desires to express—he
dismissed the young man to the care of the attendant. Then, fastening the door of
the apartment, as excluding all further interruption for the night, he yielded himself
up to those humiliating contemplations, which must naturally be supposed to
oppress a mind and spirit so endowed and so constituted as were his. What were
his meditations and what his agonies—in what hopes and memories he found his
consolations, if any of these he had—must be left to the farther progress of this narration,
and to the lively conjectures of the reader. But, till a late hour of the night,
his footsteps might have been heard by the warders who kept watch in the courts
below, as he strode, with irregular movement but without pause, in the otherwise
silent chamber above.

3. CHAPTER III.

It was long past midnight when the chamber assigned to Egiza was thrown open
by a page and entered by Count Julian, who bore in his own hand the lamp which
gave light to the apartment. The young exiled prince, exhausted by anxiety and
travel, was sleeping; but his sleep was troubled with fearful and tormenting images.
He groaned piteously, and his arms were extended, and his hands closed, with the
action of one engaged in a struggle with his direst enemy. Julian, as he beheld
this sight, dismissed the attendant, and, setting the light upon the floor, bent over
the sleeper. His hands were placed upon his shoulder, and his voice summoned
him to rise. There was an impatience in his movement, and in the tones of his utterance,
which seemed occasioned by the fact that one, suffering, though perhaps in
different degree, from the same cruel affliction with himself, could thus subside into
consolatory slumbers. The agony in his own heart taught him to believe that his
eyelids would never again be visited by that sweet soother of the wretched and
desponding soul.

“Arise, and come with me! Thou hast surely slept enough. It will help thy

slumbers hereafter, when thou hearest that we are now on our quest of vengeance.
Arise, if thou hast the heart for food like this!”

Egiza was upon his feet in an instant.

“I am ready,” was his only answer.

“Give me thy hand!” said Julian, while he extinguished the light. He grasped
the wrist of the youth, who felt the fingers of his conductor, like so many icicles,
closing upon his own. In this manner they went forward, the youth unknowing
whither. In a few moments they found themselves in the court of the citadel and
under the full glory of the starlight. The heavens wore an unclouded hue of such
sweet serenity, that Egiza looked upward with the momentary flush of one who
fancies that pure spirits are gazing down upon him. Julian's eyes were fixed upon
the earth. His fingers still grasped the hand of the youth, with a muscular tenacity
which only forbore to give pain. They went on in silence until they reached a
postern. Here Julian spoke a few words, in low tones, in the ears of a soldier who
made way for them as they emerged through the opening. The gates were closed
behind them, and as the morning star looked out from his fold they found themselves
beyond the walls of Ceuta and on their way to the tents of the Almagreb.

“Whither do we go?” demanded Egiza, somewhat impatient of the silence. His
hand had been released by his conductor the moment they were without the fortress.

“What matter?” said the other. “Hast thou anywhere a home? Hast thou
a country? Art thou not an exile—a banished man! Is it not permitted to any
one to slay thee! What shouldst thou care whether thy feet wander through the
courts of Andalusia, or among the wild tents of Tingitania?”

“It is true!” said Egiza, mournfully, and with that seeming lassitude of spirit
which was but too apt to control and enfeeble his energies.

“True! ay! But is that good reason why thou shouldst faint? Is it not something
to move thee to manhood rather?—to make thee show thy strength, thy resolution—to
arm thee with pride and hate—to fill thee with a bitter anxiety for strife—
to give thee courage—to show thee where vengeance is to be won, and make thee
to laugh at dangers?”

“Thinkst thou that I fear?”

“No. But not to fear is not enough? The common brute opposes a firm front
to the danger which assails him in his own jungle, but the nobler nature waits not
to be baited in his den. To endure is the mule's courage—to contend is the lion's
instinct. The breadth of back and strength of sinew counsels one—the great spirit
informs the other, Wouldst thou have vengeance, there must be deeds as well as
endurance: a courage to seek and assail, not less than a hardihood to contend with
the danger when it comes. I tell thee, man, I am one to pluck down the temple
upon my own shoulders, if so be that I can drag my enemy in the same moment
beneath the toppling ruins!”

“What meanest thou?”

“I have said to thee—hast thou a country?”

“Have I not answered?—I have none!”

“Nor I! nor I! But yesterday I had a country! Did I not love that country?
Witness, ye stars, that have seen my watches for her safety—ye sands, that have
beheld my marches and my battles—with what ardor, what constancy, what strength,
let the Arab tell you—let all Tingitania, all Spain declare! Over these plains but
this day I hurried, smiting, sweeping the swarthy Arab from my path with the
unsparing edge of the sword. Look around you: here are the proofs. My foot,
even now, is upon an enemy's careass!”

Egiza recoiled. Such was the fact. The face of the slain man was turned upward,

pale and immovable, beneath the light of the stars. Rigid in death, his eyes
were yet opened to the heavens, glazed and glittering with a spectral stare, that
made the youth for a moment forgetful of his own griefs in the natural horror of
his emotions. Before him were numerous proofs of the truth which Julian uttered.
Their course lay along the plain of battle. Their feet were momently among the dead.
Little heaps lay, at intervals, where the opposing combatants had fallen together;
and sometimes the sandals of the prince were held to the earth in the little puddles
of congealed, or congealing gore, which, but a few hours past, had warmed some
hopeful human heart.

“Ay, here they lie! These are sacrifices, which, but this day, I offered up for
the safety of my country. This hour I have no country! The desert is now more
dear to me than Spain. These Arabs whom I slew—they who survive—are less
the foes of Julian than the Goth and the sovereign whom he serves with such
base fidelity.”

Stern and solemn was the silence which ensued. Slowly they made their way
among the bodies of the slain. The plain of death was covered with thousands.
As far as the eye could stretch Egiza could detect the little heaps which, he too
well conceived, were raised of stiffened corses that had lately been living hearts. A
natural horror kept him silent while they hurried forward. But, indeed, Egiza
knew not well what answer to make in the hearing of a passion, such as that of
Julian, which seemed so much more intense and overwhelming than his own. He
did not conceive the purpose of the other, though he had vague doubts and misgivings
of the purport of the journey. But, with that incertitude of character
which distinguishes the feebler moral nature, he did not venture to question its
object. He did not demand, as the more determined temper always does, that the
blind should be taken from his eyes. The superior will of his conductor effectually
cowed and coerced his own. On they went, he following in a silence which, but
for the mutual solemnity of their thoughts, would have been humiliating to his
mental independence. He was in no mood for speech—and brief, broken exclamations
only, now fell from the lips of Julian. Still they trode through ranks of the
dead. At length they reached the summit of a hill which they had been gradually
ascending. Here the carnage seemed to have been most terrific. Here the pursuit
ceased—and the last terrible struggle had been made by the fugitives to unite
against their pursuers. Every step was made over bodies of the slain. The light-armed
Arab, with his dark eyes glistening in death, lay grappled and stiff in the
immovable grasp of the more muscular soldier of the north. The fire seemed to
linger still in the eyes of the one, and the fierce muscular compression of strife was
still conspicuous in the close pressed lips and frowning forehead of the other.
Gazing, even against his will, upon these frightful images, Egiza was not conscious
of those farther objects towards which the hand of Julian was outstretched.

“See you not?” said the latter.

The tones of his voice, which were hollow, struck painfully upon the ear of his
companion. He looked up. They stood on the summit of the hill, the opposite
side of which sank abruptiy. The wide spread plain was before them; and, in the
distance, a thousand dusky objects were spread out which the inexperienced eye
might not define, and scarcely distinguish

“Seest thou?” said Julian.

“What are these?”

“The tents of the Arab!”

“Ha!”

“Within those tents sleep the soldiers of Muza Ben Nosier. But this day my

foes, they were driven with shame and bitter discomfiture from before the walls of
Ceuta. Now!—”

“What wouldst thou?”

“Now!—I hold them foes no longer. The savage is the friend of Julian—the
Arab, the African, the wolf, sooner than Roderick and Spain. This night I take
my place in the tents of the Arab.”

“Thou will not yield thy country to the infidel?”

“I have no country!”

“Why hast thou brought me here?”

“For vengeance!”

“I will not go with thee!”

“Thou shalt!”

“I will not be a traitor to my country—yield my religion to the infidel—renounce
my God!”

“Country—God—religion! Ha! ha! ha! Why did I cumber myself with this
boy? What! thou hast a country? It has given thee a precious shelter! A
God? He has watched over thee truly with paternal care! Religion? Verily!
thou wearest the garments! Go to! thou art no man!”

“Show me the way to vengeance upon Roderick, and thou shalt see if I lack
manhood.”

“And thinkest thou, idle boy, that the arm of Julian would need thy help if
fate should give us chance to meet Roderick in combat? And thinkest thou that
such poor revenge as his destruction will satisfy a thirst like mine?”

“What vengeance wouldst thou have?”

“Vengeance upon the criminal, be sure! vengeance upon his creatures—the
ministers of his will—those who pander to his lusts, and stimulate his monstrous
appetites!”

“I am with thee.”

“Nor these alone. I will leave my vengeance as a trophy upon the face of the
land over which he sways! Her blackened cities shall be the monuments of my
wrath? Her smoking turrets shall proclaim my triumph, as, in their pride of
place, they beheld the dishonor of my child! Ages yet to come, which shall hear
of the shame of Cava, shall hear, also, of the terrible vengeance of her sire! The
Arab shall be the weapon of my wrath!”

“We part: I go with thee no more!”

“Nay! nay! we cannot part! Thou shalt go with me, thou shalt partake in
this glorious consummation. My daughter gave thee her love—I had been better
pleased had she chosen a bolder spirit; but as she loved thee, thou shalt partake of
the vengeance to which I dedicate my soul this hour. Spain is no more thy country.
Thou art a banished and proscribed man. We cannot conquer Roderick but
through the heart of Spain. Come with me, my son. It is not that I seek thy
help, or care for what thy arm may do; but I would have thee share, for my
child's sake, the great revenge which is to pacify my heart!”

“I dare not! True, I have no country, but I will not be a traitor to the country
which was once mine!”

“Will not! Say'st thou, will not? Say not so. Be not rash—be not erring, my
son. Bethink thee! Be wise—be bold. Be with me the minister of a mighty
vengeance.” This was said entreatingly and in subdued accents.

“I cannot—I will not—dare not!”

“Will not? Then thou diest! Thus I cut asunder all the links which bind me
to the soil of Spain?”

Sudden and terrible was the doom that followed. The fierce man smote
the unconscious victim to the earth with a single stroke of his dagger. He uttered
not a word—not a groan. The weapon had passed into his heart with unerring
aim, and the unhappy prince fell on his face, upon a hillock of Gothic and Arabian
dead. Julian lifted the dagger aloft in the starlight, as if dedicating it to the service
of some observant Fate; then, calmly folding it beneath his vest, he continued his
way in the direction of the tents of Muza Ben Nosier.

4. CHAPTER IV.

We have said that this deed was executed calmly. There is a calm of the passions,
when most excited, when most intense, just as there is in the tempest, when
all its powers are most awfully arrayed for action. The temperament of Julian
was of a sort that, after the first terrible outbreak, appears singularly subdued even
in its fiercest rages. It is as if the ordinary exercise of thought and judgement, overthrown
by one deep convulsion, no longer provoke, by their unadvised suggestions,
any farther struggle with that frenzy which they have already felt so forcibly.
Shrinking from the conflict, they leave the torrent unopposed, and though it still
rushes headlong with irresistible power, yet its waters, meeting with no obstruction,
no opposition, move forward smoothly and with even surface, to the bosom of the
mighty deep. Of their volume, of their depth, of the vast troops of terrible forms
that glide below, ravenous for prey, the eye sees nothing on the seemingly placid
and innocent waves above. There is nothing more awful in the moral world than
those mighty passions which thus hurry forward, wearing a surface so deceitful.

Yet Julian was not calm. There was nothing placid in his soul. There, all was
confusion and uproar—a conflict which he could not govern—frenzies by which he
was mastered—which his thoughts no longer availed him to oppose. It was only
to the eye that he was thus subdued. That he felt something of the awful deed
which he had just done, may be inferred from the brief sentences which fell from
his lips as he proceeded—musings which seemed in some degree designed to lessen
the enormity of the offence, by showing how valueless was the previous boon of
life of which his sudden stroke had deprived his companion. The stern philosophy
which he thus expressed, was found in that fanatic mood which has, in every age,
provoked to like performances some of the most remarkable of men.

“Incapable of vengeance, for what should he have lived? If there be no natural
passion to be fed—if there be no country to retrieve, no father to protect, no wife
to love, no pride to feel, and no revenge to take—there is death only. He could
not have lived to hope—he might to shame. It is better thus. Enough, that he
stands not in my path—obstructs me not—thwarts not, with his feminine fears, the
great work to which, this hour—hear me, ye Arab dead, whom I have stricken!—I
dedicate all that is left me of strength, or soul, or passion. Spain! Spain! thou
hast looked on the dishonor of my child, and shalt share in the doom to which I
devote the tyrant thou hast served. Thou heardst her cries! thou sawest her agonies!
thou knowest her shame! Thou shalt know the vengeance of her sire!
Come to me, dark spirits of the Moslem and of night. Mohammed!—Lucifer! I
summon ye, here upon the field, from which a thousand gloomy ghosts are rising
up in your honor—I summon ye to the retribution craved by mine! Take from
me these feebler affections which would unman me. Take from me all human
thoughts of country, friends, affections—make me what ye would have me—that,
working in your cause, I may triumph in my own!”

An awfu, majesty—the gloomy pride of a satanic spirit—glared from the countenance,
and declared itself in the attitude and action of Julian, as thus, in sentences
more broken than in our arrangement of them, he devoted himself to the stern
deities of hate and vengeance. His form seemed to dilate as if in communion with
the invisible world which he thus challenged to the audience. His hand was
stretched in threatening to the opposite shores of Spain. His voice was deep and
portentous. Terrible, indeed, was the shock which he had received. The mind
of power was deranged—the nice adjustment of its capacities was partially lost, but
there was still a strange and awful harmony in its action, in obedience to the new
and absorbing motive which his spirit had received. It seemed as if the new deities
which he invoked had accorded him a nature, in lieu of that nobler one which he
had lost, by which his way was shown him—dark and marked by madness as it
was—inflexibly to one consistent end and undeviating purpose. It is thus that the
intense aim of the monomaniac accords to his moods the semblance of a method,
which is wanting to all its purposes but one. The mind of Julian could now
grasp but a single object. There was no need for reason—her faculties were
suspended. Even as he waved his hands in threatening—even as he invoked his
deities of vengeance—a gloomy form, a dusky shadow, with long trailing garments,
swept between him and the red orb, on which his eye was unconsciously cast. A
shrill gust passed over the bloody plain, and Julian felt that his prayer was
answered. The dark and mighty spirits which he had summoned had yielded to
his wish. His invocation was heard, his vow sanctioned—his foot was yet to be
placed upon the neck of his prostrate country.

He had now no relentings. He hurried toward the tents of the Arab. There
they lay, a thousand dusky shapes, with their crescent-summits gently gleaming
in the starlight. The horse-tails were waving before each. The great banner of
the prophet rose up conspicuous in the centre, just beside the tent of Muza. On
its top shone forth a golden emblem of the moon in the first quarter, which, to the
eye of the faithful, might naturally seem to ray out with a brightness of its own.
Wild and beautiful was the scene, silent and softly peaceful, of that strange and
wondrous picture. The camp of the Moslem lay as still, in the serene starlight,
as the crowding dead, among whose insensible forms the feet of Julian had passed.
But he beheld as little of the splendid beauty of the one scene, as he had done of
the terrible features of the other. The eye of his soul was turned within, and there
were objects of more startling character there, for his contemplation, than any in
the external picture. The hell of a heaven-abandoned heart, conscious of wrong—
or it may be unconscious—but going aside from all the social gods which it has
been taught to follow and obey, is too much crowded with its own horrors to find
any in the external world.

A light from the tent of Muza streamed timidly forth and lay in a long direct
line, stretching to the very foot of the great standard of the prophet. At the foot
of this standard, Julian of Consuegra came suddenly to a pause. He lingered for
a moment. Here his guardian genius made its last stand. Virtue opposed herself,
however faintly and feebly, to the haughty strength of her assailant. But her
voice had sunk into a whisper. It was not entirely unheard—but it was unheeded.
The demon of vengeance mocked her supplications. Hate answered, with terrible
strength of utterance, to all the suggestions of love. The dark spirits were about
to triumph. One involuntary shudder passed over the form of the apostate, marking
the brief conflict between the contending genii. The ties of country were given
to the winds. The remembrances of youth—the triumphs of manhood—the honors
of a family name—the trophies of reputation—the regard of friends—the tributes

of the good and great—all availed nothing in that final struggle. With clenched
hands, thrice shaken toward the shores of Spain, Julian advanced firmly to the
tent of the Moslem. The die was cast. His form covered the light which guided
his footsteps to the entrance. He did not suffer himself to linger, but, with a will
becoming more and more obdurate with every moment of delay, he strode with deliberate
resolve, and growing erectness, within the concealing folds of the canvas,
which, in the same moment was to shut him out from his country and his God.

5. CHAPTER V.

The night was far advanced when Julian of Consuegra penetrated the tent of the
Arabian, Musa Ben Nosier. But the latter did not sleep. He was even then
busy with his best consellors, in considering the events of the late battle, its disastrous
effects, and in how far it was in his power to repair them. Deep, indeed,
was the mortification which he felt at the signal defeat which he had sustained.
The Arab warrior was unaccustomed to reverses. Hitherto, his army had swept
onwards with the inresistible wing of the tempest. Thousands had perished by
the way side, but countless swarms, that seemed never to know decrease, had gone
forward, like their own locusts, blackening the face of the land, and leaving but
desolation behind them in token of their terrible progress. His sword had indeed
seemed to carry with it, as claimed by the Moslem prophet, the irresistible will of
the deity. The oriental kingdoms, realms the most powerful in the East, had yielded
to his arms. That he should be baffled upon the shores of the Atlantic by the
Northern warriors, scarcely numbering one tenth his legions, might well provoke
his fiercest passions and prompt the expression of his immitigable rage. Musa
Ben Nosier was a man of terrible passions. But he also knew, in some degree,
the art of suppressing or silencing their exhibition. He could enjoy their excitements,
yet hide their show. The flame could burn in his bosom—nay, warm it into
powerful impulse and decision, yet could he preserve upon his features the aspect
of a most placid calm, an indifference amounting to coldness, which effectually
baffled the anticipations and judgment of the beholder. He was greatly advanced
in years. Seventy summers had passed over his head, yet he looked not less bold,
less strong, or less capable of endurance. His beard was thick, and hung down
upon his breast, soft, white and flowing, as that of the earliest patriarchs of the
East. White as the snows of Caucasus, he had the art of dying it with henna
when he came before strangers, by which, as his cheeks were smooth and unwrinkled,
the appearance of much age was removed from his face, and the spectator
beheld only a great warrior, in whose limbs there was yet the promise of long
years of brave achievement. The unexpected entrance of Count Julian surprised
him, and the white beard, now loose and untrimmed, betrayed the extreme age of
the venerable warrior. He sat upon a divan of oriental richness. His tent declared
the vanity and the wonder of his conquests. The shawls and furs of one region,
the crimson drapery of another, the gems and jewels of a third—were hung, or
strewn about the chamber, in careless profusion. In the centre burned a glorious
cresset, whose rim, crowned with precious stones, cast about the apartment a prismatic
halo which dazzled the uplooking vision to behold. The caftan of the old
warrior was set with jewels. The scymitar which lay upon his lap was surmounted
in like manner. A sapphire, whose worth might be that of a princely city,

glowed softly upon the front of his turban, from which shot up a single feather
of the heron.

Musa Ben Nosier was in council with his best officers. Their personal state
was scarcely less imposing than his own. Their conquests over wealthy nations,
had led to their adoption, in great degree, of the wealth and and luxuries of
which they came into possession; and, indeed, the love of splendor is natural to
the simplest tribes of the Orient. Five war-like captains surrounded their chief.
They were a hardy and valiant band, with fiery black eyes, swarthy cheeks,
and great muscular activity. Their words, as they conferred together, were few,
but expressive. Their tones were low and earnest. Their countenances denoted
depression, but showed nothing of unmanly despondency. They felt their reverses,
it is true, and were mortified by them—but these feelings did not lead to
any abandonment of hope or resolution. It was of their future hope and resolution
that they spoke, when the gigantic form of Julian of Consuegra stood proudly
in their midst. His superior height and bulk, the massy vigor of his limbs,
his erect majestic frame, fierce commanding eye, might well cause to start the inferior
persons—inferior in majesty and bulk at least—by whom he was surrounded.
His air was rather that of conquest and defiance, than of friendship or solicitation.

In an instant every form was erect, every eye darkened with indignation, every
scymitar flashed in the light of the burning cresset, as if winged for instant execution.
Old Musa Ben Nosier was in a moment on his feet, his right foot thrown
back, his right arm swung in air, and his keen weapon of Damascus, glittering in a
snake like circle behind his own head, ready to descend upon that of the intruder.
Scornful and haughty was the smile with which Julian beheld these preparations.
His form remained unshaken, erect and unmoved, as at his first entrance. His
arms were folded upon his breast with the placid indifference of one who feels
that there is nothing now for him to fear.

“What!” he exclaimed, “fear you danger from one man, he weaponless, save
with this, and this even now dripping with Christian blood!”

He drew from his breast the dagger with which he had stricken down the young
prince, Egiza, to the earth. Thus speaking, he flung the weapon at the feet of
the Arab chieftain.

“Behold me!” he exclaimed, “Julian of Consuegra, your enemy—he stands unarmed
among ye—strike if ye see fit, and if thus your terrors move ye!”

Musa Ben Nosier lowered his scymitar, and resumed his seat upon the divan—
the weapon was again laid across his lap. His followers, at a sign from their chief,
forbore their attitudes of defence.

“Why comes Julian of Consuegra to the tents of the faithful?” demanded Musa.
“Why comes our enemy to the Arab? Would he have peace with the sons of the
prophet?”

“He would give it—and more! He would give them victory!”

“Ha! speak on!”

“Julian comes to bring conquest to the tents of the prophet. He comes to yield
the keys of Tingitania—nay, more—Musa Ben Nosier shall have possession of those
keys which unlock the gates of Spain—which secure the empire of the Goth—the
great cities of Roderick—realms of wealth and splendor—territories of pride and
numbers—such as the Arab does not dream in all his Mauritanian range—these are
gifts which Julian brings to the Arab!”

“Thou canst do this, and wilt?” demanded Musa eagerly.

“I can do this, and will.”

“Wherefore? What wouldst thou that Musa Ben Nosier shall do for thee in
return?”

“Give me vengeance!”

“Vengeance!”

“Ay! vengeance! the last, the best food to the famishing heart of pride. The
blood of the tyrant—the foe! Thou shalt have all Tingitania, all Spain, so that
thou shalt help me to my vengeance upon Roderick who sways the realm thereof.”

“What hath he done to thee, that thou shouldst hate him thus?”

“What matter that thou shouldst know? Enough that he hath wronged me so
that I pant for vengeance—so that I have but one prayer—one passion—and that
is for his blood. Let this suffice thee—this is enough for thee to know.”

“Nay, by the prophet, but thou errest, Count Julian of Consuegra. We may
not trust the enemies of the prophet but for good cause. This day thou fightest
like a brave soldier and a faithful, in behalf of thy king and country; this night
thou wouldst destroy them both. That thou wast in earnest this day, when thou
didst battle under the banners of the cross, thousands of the slain among my people
declare from the bed of slaughter where they lie. But that thou art in earnest
in what thou sayest to-night, is a matter to be shown by sufficient reason. What
has happened to thee since we met in battle but this morning, to make so great a
change in thy heart? What have been the tidings of this night, that thou art here
with a language which is now so strange?”

Wild and terrible was the meaning in that eye which the Count Julian cast upon
the speaker.

“Moor!” said he, “there are some words which the proud heart dreads to speak.
There are some truths too terrible for the strongest soul to bear when spoken.
Thou art a warrior—thou canst feel what it is to be stricken with dishonor! Ha!
thou canst feel shame—thou hast a guess that there are some injuries that stain as
well as hurt—that degrade as well as destroy. Wouldst thou have me name my
hurt? Wouldst thou have me linger over the words that tell of my dishonor—that
show me trampled in the earth, with all that the Christian heart considers holy in the
world of his private affections, made loathsome, even when most precious in his
eyes?”

“There are offences against the proud heart which it feels shame to declare, even
as thou sayest,” replied the Arab, gravely.

“Think thou then that mine is the worst of these—that there is none more terrible
or humbling to the soul, than is the one which hath driven Julian of Consuegra
to thy tents, seeking that vengeance which else he may not compass. He comes to
thee with a cry of blood. He will give thee blood. Thy sword shalt grow weary
of slaughter in the ranks of the Christian—thy feet shall tread upon their haughtiest
necks—thy crescent shall shed its baleful lights from the high turrets which now
bear the banner of the cross. These shall be thy triumphs, if thou will lend thyself
to mine. Array thy troops with mine at my bidding, and I will lead thee into the
very heart of Spain. I will yield that fatal country to the empire of thy Caliph.
For me, I have but one prayer—I make but one stipulation—that no weapon in
thy array shall dare uplift itself against the heart of Roderick. He shall be my
prize and victim only. I claimed his life for my reward. That is the one sole
prayer, as it is now the sole object, which dwells in mine!”

“Thou hast said well, and if Musa Ben Nosier, leading the troops of the prophet,
could put faith in the words of the infidel—”

“Pshaw! what dost thou heed of these tenets of a national superstition—thine
or mine!” was the scornful response of the apostate. “Thou art a man and a

warrior. What matter to thee these idle reveries of the dreamer and the woman—
these miserable mummeries by which the cunning priesthood fetters the feeble spirit
to its own purposes. Thy God shall be mine, if thou wilt. I have a purpose—a
conquest—a large human desire, which reigns paramount in my bosom. Thou
hast also. Shall these be baffled and set at nought because of a fable. I tell thee,
Musa Ben Nosier, if thou hast at heart the triumphs of thy Caliph, as Julian of
Consuegra hath those of his revenge, then will thy faith in me carry thee far above
the miserable superstitions of those creeds which make the vulgar worship among our
mutual people. It is not what I believe, but whether thou believest me! Look I
like one who comes hither to deceive? Have I put myself, unweaponed, in thy
power, for a falsehood? See'st thou not in these eyes—in this face—hearest thou
not in my voice—in these accents—that I am dishonored—wrought by shame to
madness—that I am terribly earnest in what I promise—in what I demand? If
thou be true to thy Caliph, thou canst not help but give thy faith to my assurance.
Thy question is not whether I believe in Jesus or Mahomet, but whether I believe
in the tyranny and crimes of Roderick—whether I am sincere and resolute in the
burning desire to avenge them.”

We need not pursue the details of this conference. Suffice it that Musa Ben
Nosier still hesitated. He was a truer worshipper, after his faith and fashion, than
Count Julian had ever been with his. He believed that, to the inherent virtues of
Mohammedanism, all his successes were fairly to be ascribed; and he looked with
real horror upon the apostate when he so coolly declared his indifference equally to
all religions. Julian, meanwhile, had withdrawn himself, with averted brow, as if
disdaining farther exhortation or argument, to a remote part of the tent; leaving
the Arab generals to discuss among themselves what decision to make upon the
matter. It does not need that we should inquire how it was that Musa showed
himself so cautious in committing his armies to a project which promised so greatly
for the success of his cause. It may be that he knew not the extent or the weakness
of the empire of Roderick—it may be that he questioned the ability of Julian
to convert his forces to the cause of their country's enemy. It was certainly impossible
to doubt the terrible sincerity of Julian's hate, gleaming out in his eyes,
and articulate in every syllable of his keen and anguished utterance. It did not
matter that the Moslem did not feel in the same degree with the Christian warrior
the cruelty and shame of the peculiar wrong which had driven him to desperation,
and which, by the way, it became necessary for him to declare in language which
was humiliatingly distinct. The purity of woman forms but a humble consideration
in the eyes of a people who regard her, in the highest point of view, only as
a minister to the most sensual appetities of man. Her fidelity, as a creature of the
harem, does not necessarily involve a guaranty of her purity as a moral being.

But, while Musa doubted, one of his warriors, who had hitherto observed the
most cautious silence, approached and challenged attention. Tall and gaunt, with
a face scarred with wounds, and roughened by long exposure to the worst conflicts
of the seasons, was the person of this warrior. He was a genuine Arab—one
whose soul might be said to live only in arms and the excitement of the strife.
His height, like that of Saul, exceeded that of most men; his arms, unequally
long, extended almost to his knees. To complete the hardness and severity of this
outline, he was wanting an eye, which was stricken out by an hostile lance in one
of his numerous battles. He was called for this reason el Tuerto, or the One-Eyed;
Taric el Tuerto! This man had no pleasures but in war. His affections were set
upon his steed and scymitar. He was the perfect master of his weapon; and it was
wonderful, even among his brother Arabs, to see with what proficiency he could

use the lance in battle. He had been marked from his boyhood as one of whom
wonders might yet be known; and there were prophecies among his native people
of Damascus, that promised that he should one day become a mighty instrument
for conquest in the hands of Mahomet. It may be that this was one of those predictions
which lead to their own verification. It may be that, even in this hour,
in the tent of Musa, Taric el Tuerto, hearkening to the words of Count Julian,
and heeding the reluctance of his general, remembered the early tradition of his
youth.

“Why,” said he “should you doubt the assurance of the Christian? Is it not
a great conquest which he promises? Shall we forego this conquest because of
the peril? Is it that we have no soldiers for the adventure? Are lives too precious
for the risk? Are the warriors of the prophet too apprehensive of danger,
to encounter peril for the promotion of his work? What is the peril? Death? I
fear not death! A thousand sons of Ishmael are ready to fall with me in battle.
I will take this danger, nothing fearing but that we shall find good friends. Give
me but a handful of the forces of Waled, and send me forth with the Count Julian.”

The words of the swarthy Arabian were of instant effect.

“If the Christian will swear upon the Koran—if he will forswear the cross,
and adopt the crescent?” said Musa.

“Surely!” exclaimed Taric, looking to where Julian stood; “surely if he hath
suffered this great wrong—if he hungers for this great revenge—he will not shrink
from a trial of which he thinks so lightly.”

The flushed features of Julian were turned upon the group. There was a moment's
hesitation in his glance; but as he read the expression in their eyes, he strode
toward them.

“Behold!” said he, and, as he spoke, his foot trampled heavily upon the crosshilted
dagger which he had previously cast upon the earth. The action was understood.

“It is good!” exclaimed Musa Ben Nosier, and, striking the little gong which
stood beside him, he pronounced, in low accents, the single word, “Abul-Cassim!”

The priest made his appearance from a recess in the apartment—a man of venerable
aspect, having a benign and gentle countenance. A few words from Musa
explained his object. The Arab generals surrounded the apostate. Abul-Cassim
advanced, bearing in one hand a splendid copy of the Koran, in the other a small
casket of solid silver, in one of the compartments of which was a chafing dish of
fiery coals. A rich stand of ebony, cushioned with crimson, was placed before
him, upon which the Koran was laid. The casket of silver occupied a ledge or
shelf below it. An odorous powder, cast upon the coals, sent up a grateful but
somewhat oppressive perfume; and while this was floating in the confined atmosphere
of the tent, Abul-Cassim brought forth a chrystal vase filled with the purest
water. In this he motioned Julian to lave his fingers.

“This is a wretched mummery!” was the exclamation of the person addressed,
but he complied with the requisition. This done, Abul-Cassim laid bare the wrist
of the Christian, and, with a sharp instrument which he had previously dipped in
some precious ointment, he punctured the skin. Julian submitted with the air of
one who himself scorns the performance. The operation consumed but a single
instant, and, when it was over, Julian observed, with a feeling of disquiet for
which he was scarcely able to account, that a distinct blood-red crescent was visible
upon the arm. Instinctively he passed his thumb over the character. The
Emir smiled as he did so. It did not lessen the disquiet of the apostate to discover
that his involuntary effort to obliterate the foreign and unnatural symbol was wholly

fruitless. It was the effect of natural superstition that made him feel, however
little of a Christian he had been before, that he was now wholly separated from
Christian alliance, and delivered over to the arch enemy of that creed in which his
people still believed and trembled. A chapter of the Koran was now read by
Abul-Cassim, and Julian of Consuegra was ennobled in the ranks of the Moslem
faithful. Did he fancy at that moment the distant shriek which filled the air?
Was it, indeed, the last cry of the maternal genius, abandoning her sacred trust
forever?

6. CHAPTER VI.

The unholy compact was at length accomplished, and Julian of Consuegra,
while the star of morning looked pale and ghastly down upon the uncovered faces
of the slain, retraced his way over the field of battle to the walls of Ceuta. In the
single hour which he had passed in the tents of the Arab, he had completed all
the plans by which to render his treachery to his country successful in her overthrow.
We need not dilate upon or detail the schemes in this object, devised between
himself and Musa Ben Nosier. Let it suffice that the latter wrote to his
caliph, Waled Almanzor, in all the exulting spirit of a newly acquired hope. He
reminded him of his past conquests, and begged permission to undertake the new.
Of this permission he had no doubt, and he suffered none to escape him of the entire
success of those designs which he meditated now. The assurances of Julian
were such as to remove all his fears of the powers of the Goth—fears which
might naturally enough be awakened by the terrible repulse which he had just received
before the walls of Ceuta. The apostate count had but too truly shown
him the weakness of his country—its wealth, its vices, and the emasculating sloth
and luxuries in which all ranks of her people indulged. Her strength lay chiefly in
the army of the frontier, and that army, veterans under Julian himself, were, as he
truly described them, faithful personal adherents of himself, rather than the subjects
of Roderick, or the sons of Spain. The aged, but fiery souled Emir, depicted
in his letter to the caliph, the empires already subdued, the spoils already won, and
pronounced the treasures and the charms of that now unveiled before his eyes, and
ripe for invasion, as superior to them all—equal to Syria in the serenity of its sky
and the fertility of its soil; Arabia Felix in its delightful climate; India in its spices
and fragrance; Cathay in its precious metals; Hegiaz in its fruits and
flowers, and Aden in its majestic cities seated by the sea. Shall such a land, he
asked, be left with the unbeliever, when we may so easily subdue it to the sceptre
of the faithful. The caliph's reply was immediate and favorable. `It is the will of
Allah!' was his answer; and the legions of Islam, twelve thousand in number, under
the conduct of Taric El Tuerto, were put in readiness, with the aid of Julian,
to attempt the conquest.

The apostate chieftain was not idle. But his passion did not lessen his policy.
He was one of those dark, proud spirits, who, with a soul shaken to the centre by
his own great griet, can, after the first terrible convulsions, conceal utterly all outward
commotion that is busy still within. Though a man of unbending and sleepless
passions, he was yet a politician. From the moment, when at midnight, he
left the tents of the Arabian, he devoted himself to the task of winning his soldiers
to his purpose. For this purpose his great wealth was distributed among them.
What was wealth and treasure to him who had first made the sacrifice of friends
and country to the desires of an unsparing vengeance. His officers were already

devoted to his will. His soldiers beheld in him their immediate sovereign, and
acknowledged, in the long relationship which they had maintained together, a
friend and leader, rather than a lord and master. It was not difficult to secure for
himself those affections which had long been withdrawn, upon the skirts of Barbary,
from any social affinities with their own people dwelling beyond the straits.
Julian was soon sure of his adherents.

He too had his correspondence. He wrote, by a trusty hand, to the Archbishop
Oppas, and adroitly insinuated such hopes in the bosom of that subtle priest, as reawakened
in full all of his ambitious projects for the princes, his nephews, and
himself. Of the fate of Egiza, Oppas knew nothing. Julian spared him that
portion of his knowledge, secret to all but himself, of which he had left such a
sudden and bloody record, at midnight, on the battle-field of Ceuta. But the archbishop
had learned to base no calculations on the spirit of this feeble prince. His
eye had gradually turned to Pelayo, as to the active hope of the royal family which
had been deposed; and the letter of Julian had scarcely been received and announced,
before his own mission, embodying the new hopes which he had imbibed
from Julian, were transmitted to the daring young chief, who continued to bring
together a little army in the secure passes of the Asturian mountains. The communication
made to Pelayo informed him only of the defect of Julian, with the
forces which he held at Ceuta. Of his own alliance with the Arabs, Julian had
withheld the information from the archbishop. That was his secret only, for he
dreaded lest the religious prejudices of the priest might render him reluctant, even
at successful revolution, sustained and brought about by infidel alliance. His caution
was unnecessary. Oppas was scarcely less corrigible, in this matter, though
a Christian teacher, than himself. To the king—to Roderick, he who had thus
driven him to the deepest desperation, and to the commission of the last of crimes
—he also wrote. He was able, in this letter—such was the strength of his will,
and the intense character of his hatred—to forbear all complaint, and every show
of passion. He spoke of his daughter as if he knew not of her death—as if he
entertained not the slightest notion of the brutal usage she had endured—and spoke
to the tyrant, as if still his warm and confiding adherent. Bitter was the pang of
suppression which the apostate felt, as he wrote this fraudulent epistle. Wild
was the shudder which shook his frame as he laid his pen aside, and gave freedom
to the emotions which he struggled successfully to keep down till the scroll was
written. He had his policy in this also. He could tell the monarch of his victory
—could dilate on its extent—its advantages, and the security which it had brought.
But this security was not yet complete. The Arab was not entirely subdued. He
was still in force in the pastural vallies which spread themselves in the sun, sheltered
by the distant range of the Atlas mountains; and drawing new warriors to
his thinned array from the numerous tribes of the desert, which had been subdued
by the sword of Islam. To crush effectually this enemy—to drive him far from
the neighborhood of Tingitania, and prevent the accumulation of powers which, at
a later period, it might not be so easy to overcome, it was necessary that new succors
should be sent to Ceuta. Arms and horses, in particular, were among the desired
supplies, und for these Julian wrote to Roderick in language of entreaty, the
earnestness of which was well calculated to make itself felt without provoking
suspicion. Remembering the awful vision which he had witnessed in the mysterious
cavern of Covadonga—the vision of these swarthy invaders, following in the
pale light of the baleful crescent—recalling the terrible prediction which he could
not drive from his senses, and which told him that, by infidels in this aspect, his
sceptre was to be wrested from his hands, the soul of Roderick was startled by its

fears, and he readily conceded to so brave a captain as Julian, all that he craved
for the defence of the frontier against this greatly threatening foe. In his anxiety
and apprehension, he stripped his kingdom of its means of defence, and, even as
the apostate count had desired, accumulated, ready for the use of the traitor, the
implements of war, and the steeds necessary for a mighty cavalry, conveniently at
the foot of the rock of Calpe, one of the great guardian mountains which keep the
entrance to the Mediterranean sea.

Circumstances continued to favor the progress of conspiracy. The temporary
suspension of hostilities, and the disappearance of the Arabs from the immediate
neighborhood of Ceuta, by withdrawing from sight the immediate danger, disarmed
the fears of the Gothic monarch. The preparations which he made and
the precautions which he had begun to take for the safety of his kingdom were
at once suspended, and satisfied with having furnished adequate means for its defence,
to the very person whom he had most reason in the world to fear, he again
surrendered himself to the heartless dissipation and the unwise tyrannies in which
he had so long indulged. But he was soon to waken from his dream of security
and the voluptuous languor of that life which had so enslaved his soul and subdued
his courage. The preparations of Julian being all complete, he summoned
the veteran Taric el Tuerto to his side. The banner of the Christian and of Islam
waved together in the ghastly starlight, as, darting across the narrow streight that
divides the shores of Spain from those of Africa, the prows of the Arabian, which
had been silently gathering along the coast preparatory to this event, shot into the
dark but sheltering shadows of the great mountain height of Calpe.

“Here,” said Julian the Apostate, to the gaunt and fiery veteran, Taric el Tuerto,
as they climbed the rugged elevation, and looked down upon the blue waters that
lay below sleeping in the serene starlight—“Here did Hercules the mighty set up
his pillar. This is the rock of Calpe.”

“And here,” said the ambitious and impatient Taric—“here will I set up mine,
and it shall be a mark forever, high above the sea. Calpe no longer! It is my
mountain now—`Gebir al Taric'—the pillar of Taric.”

Strange that the exulting and arrogant spirit of the Arabian should, in this moment,
have spoken in the voice of prophecy. His pillar has indeed overthrown
that of Hercules. To this day, Gibraltar—“Gebir-al-tar”—is the name of the mountain—perpetuating
the events of that night of import, and of the confident speech
of the Islam chieftain.

7. CHAPTER VII.

The troops of the Arabian once safely landed upon the shores of Spain, the resolved
spirit of Taric el Tuerto led him to a performance which forced upon his
followers the necessity for putting forth all their valor. He secretly set fire to their
ships, and when they gazed with appalled hearts upon the terrific spectacle, and
demanded to know, how, if the fortune of war should go against them, they were
to escape from the country? He answered sternly, “There is no escape for the
coward!” When they asked, “Are we never more to behold our homes?” his
reply, “Your homes are before you,” declared for the presence of a spirit which
soon made itself acknowledged by the multitude. The resolve of their leader set
their hearts on fire. They felt that they had now to win their country with their
swords. Prophecy came to their encouragement. Auguries and miracles declared
in their behalf, and for the sacred mission of their leader; and the fearless Taric,

no less politic than brave, did not forbear the employment of auxiliary arts, to find
a sanction for his own audacity, in provoking the religious and sensual enthusiasm
of his followers. But our details must not relate to him. Our eye rests upon the
dark and terrible spirit, at whose instigation he lifts the baleful lights of the crescent
upon the heights of Calpe. He marks the progress of the Moslem with exultation.
He sees in the fierce and single-eyed Arabian, whose fanatic energies have
warmed the meanest of his followers with a fiery temper like his own, only the
minister of his individual vengeance. Living for this passion only, he sees not the
awful vision of his country ruined, which had else harrowed up in humiliating
agony every pulse within his bosom; but, as if blinded for the destroyer, and decreed
to work in blindness until the terrible destiny to which he is set shall be fulfilled,
he rejoices in the progress of the invader over devastated plains and burning
cities. That progress was at once begun. The sons of Ismael, impetuous by
nature, and urged to superior impulses by the tenets of a faith which found and
taught that the scymitar was the true means and medium for spiritual conversion,
suffered not the grass to grow beneath the feet of their horses; and no provocation
beyond that already flaming and inextinguishable fire within the heart of Julian,
was necessary to goad him to activity in the fearful mischief to which he had set
his hands. The united forces of the Moslem and the apostate chief were soon in
motion, and the astonished Christians of Tarifa were suddenly confounded with
the presence of the turbaned enemy, at the very moment when they felt themselves
most secure from any danger by the great preparations made for the defence of the
kingdom, and the recent great victory of Julian at Cueta. Their hasty levies under
Theodomir were driven from the path of the invader, who continued to advance
with equal speed and good fortune into the very bowels of the land.

It was in the midst of his most precious luxuries, lapped in profligate ease,
abandoned to his insane pleasure, slothfully confident and criminally joyful, that
Roderick was surprised with accounts of the invasion of his kingdom. The
despatches of Theodomir smote his senses with a terrible sense of apprehension.
When he read, in the language of this brave old chieftain, that the Africans were
upon him, without ships, and as if descending from the clouds—he recalled once
more the fearful vision of the enchanted cavern. His memory took a wild and
rapid survey of the events from that period to the present time, and his conscience,
not yet utterly crushed and subjugated in his repeated crimes, smote him keenly
with the wrongs which he had done to Julian, and the hapless child of that apostate
sire. Of that apostacy, to this hour, he yet knew nothing. The deeds of
Julian in the foray which he was now making into his motherland, had not yet
rendered him conspicuous, as they were destined to do, in the sight of his countrymen;
and Roderick, regarding him as the warrior upon whom, over all, the
safety of the realm depended, now felt more than ever how cruel had been the
recompense which the monarch had bestowed, in requital of the great services of
the subject. The defeats of Theodomir, and his appeal for succor, rendered necessary
his immediate preparations. Roderick was no imbecile in moments of peril,
and he now prepared to act with a decision which was honorable to himself, and
not unworthy of the valor of his race. Forty thousand men were summoned to
the field, and put under the command of Ataulpho, a prince of the royal blood of
the Goths. This prince was brave, and so, perhaps, were the nobles and the soldiers
who followed him to battle. But they lacked in military experience—they
were without discipline, and the luxuries of all classes of the people had unfitted
them for the vigorous duties of the camp. They lacked in that hardy muscle
which could best have served them in the field. Ataulpho sought out the invaders

with all diligence, nor did they avoid the encounter with an enemy fully twice
their number. This inequality of number was more than compensated by the
wild enthusiasm of the Arabians, by the vindictive fury of the apostate Christian
leader, and by the superior skill and hardihood of their soldiers. The Gothic warriors
fought gallantly, for they still cherished a portion of that valor, which, from
immemorial time, had conducted their sires through successful conflict. But they
strove against the fates. The stars in their courses fought against Roderick as
they did against Sisera. In the midst of the conflict, when the troops of Taric
were about to recoil from the stern and determined ranks of the Christians, Julian
of Consuegra, at the head of a select body of horsemen, charging upon the centre
where Ataulpho fought, turned instantly the fortune of the day. Ataulpho fell,
but not before the weapon of the apostate. His arm struck no blow in the perilous
conflict. His judgment led, his sword pointed out the way to victory, which
his soldiers successfully pursued; but he kept his own weapon unstained, reserving
his personal valor for a nobler victim. Grimly and coldly did he gaze upon
the havoc of the field. His emotions were all still and silent as the storm, when
marshalling its tempests for the sea. He beheld, with no exultation, the great banner
of the cross go down in dust and blood—beheld, with scarce a mood, whether
of pain or pride, the noble features of Ataulpho, as pale and ghastly, smeared
with dust and blood, and looking still terrible from the conflict, his head, smitten
from the trunk, was lifted high upon a lance in the presence of the triumphant armies.
It was necessary that Ataulpho should be slain—that his army should be annihilated—if
only that his path should be laid open to his own particular enemy. But
not for him to feel emotion of any description, whether of gladness or of grief, but
in that one event. The passions of his heart were not now to be awakened
until his weapon crossed in mortal conflict with that of Roderick the Goth. He
reserved the prowess of his arm—matchless at any weapon—only for this single
foe. What to him was the constant progress which the Arabian made? What to
him were the armies which he overthrew? save that each advancing step, and
each successive victory brought him so much nigher to his enemy. Well he knew
that it was not possible for Roderick to forbear much longer to appear at the
head of his armies. Shame, and the absolute necessity of addressing all his military
skill and valor to the exigency, (and Roderick was not without high reputation
for both,) would, he well knew, soon bring the tyrant into the field. But he
did not allow for the cowardice of a guilty conscience. From the moment when
tidings were brought to Roderick that Count Julian fought with the invader and
against his Christian countrymen, he shrunk from the necessity of meeting with
the foe. He had no fear of the armies of the Moslem—would probably have joyed
in the encounter with the foreign enemy—but his heart failed him when he thought
of meeting in battle with the proud and mighty noble whom he had so deeply injured.
What were his feelings when the tidings reached him of the successive
defeats and destruction of his army—of his kinsman's fate—the slaughter of his
bravest leaders, the veterans and the nobles of his kingdom—for it had been the
policy of Taric, counselled by Julian, to single out for slaughter the distinguished
persons, suffering the hirelings and the common herd to escape with little notice.
The infidels in growing numbers overspread the country. Host after host from
Africa, hearing of the successes of Taric, followed in his footsteps; and the
smokes of their devastation, rising up everywhere from the plains of Sidonia to the
fertile waters of the Guadiana, called reproachfully upon the imbecile sovereign to
shake off his lethargy, and to lead his mightiest force against the infidel, Nor did
they summon him in vain. His old courage was gradually reviving in his heart—
reviving, perhaps, at the instigation of that very fate which required him for the
sacrifice. He shook himself free from his nervous apprehensions. The name of Julian
lost its terror in his ears. The awful image of the injured father of Cava ceased to
look out in characters of fear upon his vision; and a burning desire to resent the
insolence of the invader, and revenge the wrongs done to his kingdom, at length
drove him into the exercise of energies of a kind which almost compensated for all
his previous apathy. His movements were urged with rigor. His troops were
assembled with speed. His nobles were summoned to his side. Weapons were
brought, armor forged, the various munitions of war sought for in all directions,
while his camp witnessed momently the arrival of men, mules and horses, from all
quarters of the kingdom. Roderick possessed in himself rare natural resources of
strength and providence, of which the slothful career in which he had so long indulged,
had not entirely stripped his genius. But his strength lay quite as much
in himself as in his armies. The levies thus hastily brought together were not
the men with whom to meet the hardy veterans of Julian and Taric. Nor were
the nobles on whom he relied, altogether calculated as counsellors or leaders for
an exigency so fearful as that which threatened the kingdom. Many came, but
few deserved to be chosen. Roderick felt but small confidence in their succor when
he looked around him. Many of the nobles gave him, he well knew, but lip service.
Many of them had suffered by his injustice—and, upon the rest he could
found but few hopes, whether as respects their conduct or their courage. The
Archbishop Oppas came with the rest, and was one of the king's most trusty counsellors.
His conspiracy had been too cautiously carried on for the suspicions of
the tyrant. More than once in danger, he had more than once escaped by the
adroitness of his judgment, and, on each occasion, by securing additional holds
upon the confidence of the sovereign he was now preparing to betray. It was he,
chiefly, who had persuaded Roderick to take the field in person. He exaggerated
the strength of the kingdom, the valor of the troops, and the weakness of the invader.
He wrote to Julian: “The tiger leaves his jungle. Be you ready with the
hunters.” And Julian rose when he read the missive, and a convulsion of joy
shook his manly frame. A deep red light seemed to kindle in his eye, and there
was no more apathy in his movements. He shook his hand slowly and threateningly,
as if one even then stood before him. Then he might be heard to mutter,
as if to one speaking behind him: “Peace, Frandina, reproach me not! The
hour cometh and the victim. Peace, pure and suffering spirit, thy stains shall all
be washed away in blood.” Then, moving with hasty stride to the tent of Taric,
he said to that chieftain whom he wakened from iron slumbers: “Arouse your
Arabs, Taric, for the day is reddening in the east Arouse ye, for, even now, Roderick
is setting his army in array, and marehes to the banks of the Xeres.
It is there that we shall meet him.” And, this time, Taric el Tuerto rose with a
submissive air, for the command in the eye and the voice of Julian was that of a
master, not to be withstood. From that moment the sway was with the great
avenger. The troops were marshalled, and Julian of Conseugra led the host,
calmly, and with the countenance of one who has already willed that a mighty
victory shall follow.

8. CHAPTER VIII.

Roderick had put forth the most astonishing efforts for bringing together his soldiers
for the war; and as the numerous host defiled through the plains of Andalusia,
on their way to the seat of conflict, the soul of the tyrant forgot its fears and evil
forebodings, exulting in conviction of certain and complete conquest. The host
was beyond computation great, no less than fifty thousand horsemen, and a countless
multitude of foot covering the plain like an agitated sea. But it was not such
a host as the experienced man relies upon, and its very masses were unfriendly to
its celerity of progress and the concert of its action. Never had there been in Spain
the spectacle of such a multitude, and thus caparisoned. The luxury of the land
was more conspicuous than its power. The nobles of the Goth were clad in armor
better adapted to the uses of the spectacle and ceremonial than to those of battle—
better calculated for the bright eyes of damsels than for the wild buffets of sturdy
enemies. Art had expended all its fancies, and wealth all its materials, on this vain
foppery; and curiously adorned with gold and precious stones, with drooping plumes
and silken scarfs, and surcoats of brocade or velvet richly embroidered, the vainglorious
creatures of the court, prepared to undergo the toils and dangers of the camp
and field. They still possessed the spirit and courage of their sires, and this, perhaps,
was the redeeming aspect in their progress. They could meet the foe without
shrinking, and striking boldly if feebly, could in this manner die, if they could not
do, honorably. If the nobility were thus decorated with superfluous trappings, the
common multitude were wanting in the absolute necessaries of war. The politic
providence of Julian had stripped the kingdom, as we have seen, of the means necessary
for arming the people against sudden invasion. Lances and shields, and swords
and crossbows, might be seen among them, but without any uniformity of equipment
upon which so much of the success of an army, acting in masses, depends in
any encounter with a foe. Thousands were provided only with sling and stone,
with bill and bludgeon, and the ordinary implements of husbandry. They were
without a knowledge of war, and, lacking in discipline and arms, gave little promise
of that good service which the sanguine and eager spirit of Roderick anticipated at
their hands. They shared in some degree, however, the courage of their monarch,
and when he appeared at their head, mounted on his favorite charger, Orelia—a
noble form himself, clad in armor of burnished gold, and looking the emblematic
hero of his kingdom—their enthusiasm declared itself in a shout which rent the
firmament. Their courageous impulse encouraged their sovereign, and making them
a speech full of encouragement and of hope, he concluded with commanding their
instant march for the Xeres in compliance with the insidious counsel of the
Archbishop Oppas. This wily traitor had already contrived to establish secret but
regular communications with Count Julian, The latter was punctually apprised
of every movement in the camp of Roderick. Similar intelligence was conveyed to
the young Prince Pelayo, who was summoned with his little band of partisans to
descend from his mountain passes to the famous quarry which the usurper was
preparing for the stroke. Pelayo was not made acquainted with all the facts in the
history of Julian, which, by this time, were in possession of Oppas. They did not
revolt the latter, though he well knew that their revelation would produce such an
effect on the gallant and faithful prince, his nephew. To him the story came that
Julian had revolted in behalf of Egiza, his brother, or himself, the heirs of their
father, unrighteously slain by Roderick. That he should bring among his followers

a small force of Arabs whom he had overcome, drawn to his service in Tingitania,
offered no reason for suspecting him. Glad of an opportunity at last to cross
weapons with the usurper with some prospect of effectual struggle, Pelayo readily
put his troops in motion for the purpose of forming a coalition with Julian against
Roderick, before the two armies could possibly meet on the banks of the Xeres.
At this place, and in the moment of greatest struggle, even while the battle raged,
the treacherous archbishop was to draw off his legions, and crossing to the side of
the invaders, return with fatal effect against the ranks which had counted on his
strength and assistance. Such was the cunning contrivance by which it was calculated
that the overwhelming masses of Roderick—overwhelming in spite of all
their inferiority of weapon and discipline—were to be foiled and overthrown. The
archbishop headed a select body of soldiers. They were attached to his cause with
a sort of personal attachment. His solicitude for a long time had been to bring
about this feeling. For this he had spared no means. Cajoling arts, kind offices,
and a liberal bounty, had won the hearts of their leaders, while other means of
a grosser nature—animal indulgencies and high wages—had effectually won to his
purposes the common people. The soldiers led by Pelayo were a hardy tribe of
mountaineers, a simple, virtuous race, unaccustomed to luxury, little ambitious,
and content with that poverty which they knew how to enjoy, as it seemed to secure
them the precious boon of liberty. Pelayo was the very leader for such a
people. He loved no silken couch, loathed with a strange dislike the voluptuous
effeminacies in which his order were wont to forget themselves and all the virtues
of becoming manhood, and, superior to all considerations of self, set before them
ever the example of a self-denying spirit, toiling only for the glory and safety of
his people. They believed equally in his valor and his virtues. Secure of both
in him, he was secure of their loyalty and adherence, and when he bade them descend
with him to the conflict with the usurper, they bounded up and went forth
as to a festival.

Little did Roderick dream of these dangers. Oppas, with an adroitness which
has distinguished the established priesthood in all periods, had wormed himself into
full confidence of the usurper. His counsel, urged indirectly, suggested frequently
rather than boldly declared, was that which Roderick prefered commonly to the
arguments of better men. He encouraged the rapid movements of the usurper
against the enemy, before his followers were provided with weapons, and in spite
of their obvious want of discipline. His argument was a specious one: “Shall we
wait,” he asked, “until the force of the Arabs, now small in numbers, shall be increased
by countless swarms from the desert? Already they begin to pour in upon
us, and we must crush them speedily, if we would not do battle with all Almagreb!”
The impetuous nature of Roderick readily sympathized with this seemingly wise
but really injudicious counsel, which Oppas rendered more palatable still by insisting
upon the great ease with which their myriads could be overthrown. He spoke
with scorn of their numbers and their skill, and by adroit flatteries, so wrought upon
the spirit of the king that he longed for nothing so much as the encounter with a
foe, from whom, according to the voice of prophecy, he had everything to dread.
The artifices of Oppas did not stop here. We have already seen in previous pages
the glimpses of a passion which he felt—a passion perhaps more criminal than
any other that worked within his bosom as it meditated injury to the most unoffending
innocence—for the person of the beautiful spouse of the usurper—the meek
and gentle Egilona. It was the hope of Oppas to secure this victim in the course
of those events which his artful counsel was now hurrying forward. He promptly
availed himself of the suggest on of the innocent and dutiful wife, herself, to promote

his passionate devices. “Why,” said she, “should I not follow my lord in
this march of peril? Why should I not be near him in the hour of danger? Too
well I know that his fearless spirit will bear him where the strife is thickest—that
he will rush to the embrace of war, and grow mad with rapture in the dreadful
glory of the flashing spear and scymitar. Verily, it is but meet that I should be
near him in this peril, that I may tend upon him should he suffer hurt—which Jesu
forbid—dress the wounds of his limbs, and sooth his weariness with my cares,
and console him after his toils by the song and story which he so much loves.”

“It is thy duty, daughter, that thou shouldst thus attend thy lord. Thy thought
becomes thee. It were pitiful if he should be wounded and alone, needing succor
and soothing which thou mayst bestow—and thou absent here reposing on thy
couch, little heeding of his wants and sorrows.”

“Ah! father, I thank thee from the bottom of my heart for this sanction. I have
already spoken of it to my lord, but he chides me for the thought. Thou shalt help
me in my quest. Thou shalt speak to my lord, and show him what is needful for
me to do, and to desire, and what is but right and generous in him to grant. Wilt
thou not do this, holy father—I pray thee to serve me in this wise, for well I know
that thy counsel is of all others most grateful to my lord.”

“Verily, daughter, thou art a pattern of virtue and duty. The sex is honored
in thee, and the church glories in thy faith. How rightly dost thou see these
things. Where should the wife be, in the peril of her husband, but by his side?
I would not have thee share in his danger, for that becomes not thy feebleness of
sex; but there are duties in which thou art strong, and these are particularly needed
of thee to exercise. Daughter, I will speak to thy lord in thy behalf.”

“Oh, father, how shall I thank thee?”

“Thanks, dearest daughter of the church, it needs not. It needs but duty only.
Verily, the heavens smile upon thee, and thy virtues will greatly serve against the
too erring and too vicious nature of thy lord. Thou art precious, my child, in the
sight of heaven. Thou remindest me in thy meekness and loving-kindness of those
accepted women which made lovely and secure the tents of the ancient patriarchs.
Be thus, ever, my daughter, and the smiles of the Virgin shall give thee countenance
and protection in the moment of thy greatest need.”

Thus speaking, while the royal lady knelt with uncovered head before him, his
paternal hand rested on her neck, and, unconsciously, as it were, glided into her
bosom, the heaving billows of which were swelling with a sense of pleasure at
the terms of commendation which she heard from one in whom she was accustomed
to behold the visible agent, and almost the only means of communication
with her Saviour and her God. She felt no distrust of that patriarchal pressure
which was yet not without its influence upon other sensibilities than those which
belonged to her devotions. How should she dream to find the wolf in the shepherd!
The pure heart, unconscious of guilt itself, not easily suspects the secret
guilt in the souls and thoughts of others. The meek submissive woman, untrained
and inexperienced in the strifes of the brutal world, is slow to fancy cunning or
deceit in those minds upon which society itself commands that she shall RELY.
And thus it was that the pure-souled Egilona knelt before the lascivious and abandoned
priest, submissive, while his polluting hands, made authoritative by his patriarchal
mission, presumed upon freedoms with the person of the innocent and lovely,
which are permitted by heaven to the sacred rites of wedlock only.

Very difficult was it for the bold and impious Oppas to tear himself away from
the exercise of his audaciously assumed privileges. She, the meek and virtuous
woman, knelt still, immovable as beneath a spell, looking down upon the earth,

and submitting, as she fancied, to a benediction which was to secure her the special
favor of the Mother of the Lamb. The wolf in sheep's clothing tore himself away
at last. His hands lifted her from the ground, and rested still upon her snow-white
neck and bosom, while pressing his burning lips upon her cheeks. This was all
apostolical only, in the humble and unsuspecting thoughts of the woman—for a purer
heart than that of Egilona never beat within mortal breast.

To Roderick, Oppas urged the wishes of Egilona—and his own—but with a
different argument. To the fearless man he justified the presence—not of the queen
only, but of the court—on the ground that there was no danger. “Shall these
infidels thus affright us with their crescents? Are these barbaric drums so terrible
in our ears, that we must needs keep them from the ears of our women? Is there
no valor among your nobles that they dread lest the ladies whom they serve should
see them as they go into conflict. I tell thee, Roderick, if thou wouldst have thy
young warriors do famous service, let them be seen of the young maidens of the
court.” And the subtle priest then made some familiar farm-yard allusions to the
effect upon the courage of the male bird, of the presence of the female.

“Verily, my Lord Oppas,” said Roderick, with a merry visage, “thou hadst
been a better soldier than a priest—albeit, thou hast some of the rarest attributes
for the priesthood also. Thou hast a tongue to wheedle Satan himself out of his
prey—and, I tell thee, I half suspect thee of a warmer passion for the sex than
thou hast for the surplice and the altar. Thou canst not cheat me, lord bishop. I
know thee, if the church does not. But thou art right in this. Shall these scurvy
sons of Ismael make us afraid? Shall there be no more smiles—no more sunshine
because of their moons? By Bacchus, I will it otherwise. Egilona shall be with
us and the court. We shall have all the dames of beauty and of grace, to see that
we are not wanting in the spirit to defend them. Our young nobles shall do
battle in their sight, and well I know there will be no cowardice—no skulking
then.”

There were other counsels among the veterans, but those of the archbishop prevailed,
and when he bore the grateful intelligence to Egilona, his wild passions rejoiced
in the renewed exercise of his patriarchal privileges. Once more his lips
were pressed upon her cheek and forehead—once more his audacious fingers rested
upon her neck, or lifted, in a seemingly wandering mood, the tresses of her silken
hair; and evil were the triumphant thoughts which kindled into burning tumult
the blood mounting to his brain, as he rushed in imagination over the brief interval
between that moment and the day when the woman at his feet was to be widowed
by his unbridled passions.

9. CHAPTER IX.

Of the further details of the conspiracy against the crown of Roderick it does
not need that we should now take heed. It will suffice to remember that the conspirators
were counselled by shrewd, sagacious heads; men well experienced in
such practices, and entirely free from those disquieting morals of patriotism which
might have made them scrupulous in such employment. They carried their plans
forward so as to include all the probable elements of success—neglected no precautions,
and disregarded none of those considerations which might be supposed to
operate, whether favorably or otherwise, in connection with their schemes. After
some delays the two opposing armies came in sight of each other on the banks of
the lovely waters of the Xeres.

“Henceforward this shall be the river of death!” exclaimed the fierce captain of
the Arabs, as he looked down at the water flowing before his feet; and the name
of “Guadalete,” which, in the Arabic, has this signification, consecrated to the purpose
by the terrible strife which followed upon the banks of this stream, has clung
to it even to the present hour, and will probably cling to it forever. The dark
soul of Taric el Tuerto, conscious of its own purpose, was prescient of the awful
event about to follow, and he was destined soon to put in exercise all his fearful
energies in order to realize his own predictions and desires. Glorious, indeed, was
the spectacle then visible upon the borders of this lovely river, so darkly consecrated.
On the side of the invaders might be seen a small but formidable army—grim warriors,
well armed, compact, accustomed to work together in warfare, expert in the use
of their weapons, and yielding to the summons of battle with the exulting spirit of
the war horse, impatient of the trumpet. This well-appointed army though but a
speck in comparison with the numbers brought into the field by Roderick, wore yet
the aspect of a power which might be regarded with respect and apprehension. The
order of the well-drilled masses—their compact army—the symmetry and proper relationship
of body to body, horse and foot, seeming to co-operate as by some secret
sympathy, and without a word—these were signs not to be misunderstood or undervalued
by him whose eye hath ever enjoyed the spectacle of combat. The swarthy
legions of Taric looked like warriors embrowned by strife on every field in Mauritania.
The fiery steeds of the desert, admirably trained by the hand of the Bedouin,
gave life and animation to the array, as they coursed over the adjacent plain; and
the wild clash of the cymbal, mingled with the jeering cry of the Arabian horsemen,
seemed to awaken the very echoes in mockery of the vast but comparatively feeble
battallions of the Gothic monarch. But the spectacle that gave most pain and apprehension
to the eyes of Roderick was that of the small but formidable body of
Christian warriors leagued with the invader against his country. His heart grew
cold and sunk within his bosom, when he was shown, a little apart from the array
of the Moslem, the command of Count Julian, with his well-known banner waving
in the midst. Here were ten thousand of the bravest warriors of the Goth—hardy
veterans, daring soldiers, bold, firm and excellently skilled at every weapon. But
it was of their leader and not of these he thought; and, turning from the sight with
feelings which humbled, and which he did not dare to name to himself nor show
to others, he secretly resolved that it was not in this quarter he should seek to find
his enemies in battle. The conscience that makes cowards of us all, palsied the
valor of the tyrant when he remembered the wrongs that he had done to the daughter
of Count Julian, and his heart did not suffer him to join in the frequent maledictions
of his nobles, as they shook their vindictive hands towards the tents of the
apostate.

A short league lay between the opposing armies. That of Roderick presented a
spectacle of unexampled magnificence. The immense number of his host, rated by
historians almost as extravagantly as those of the Persians in the invasion of Greece,
was itself a sight of marvellous impressiveness. But the splendor of its array put to
shame any exhibition of a like character either in ancient or modern times. The
habitual luxuries into which the Gothic nobles had fallen, could not be separated
from their connection, even though they were about to engage in new toils and
perils in which such luxuries were incumbrances only. Details cannot well be
given of a display of which all the writers deal in superlatives only. Enough to
say that the ostentatious exhibitions of the tournament, in the most glorious periods
of chivalry, were translated to that field of death, and crowned it with a magnificence
and beauty that contrasted terribly and sadly with the fearful issues of the strife

Myriads of pennons streamed above the scattered hosts of the Gothic monarch—the
tents of their nobles were almost hidden in their ornaments of silk, while their persons,
blazing with jewels, were only so many inestimable motives to valorous exertion,
on the part of an enemy roused to avarice by the exhibition of a wealth which
it required nothing but valor to obtain.

There was yet another army on the field. Scarcely an army, if we regard the
mighty legions of Roderick, and the inferior, but still imposing force led by Taric
and Julian. This was the little band of Pelayo, the true heir of the Gothic crown.
These were his mountaineers, from the Asturian passes, and they occupied a strong
position on the side of a hill, in sight of both the opposing armies. They lay
quiet but watchful in their camp, as if without a motive or a life; but their prince
and leader, Pelayo, was even now a victim in his tent to the bitterest pangs of disappointment
and distrust. He who had come to the field under the assurances of
the Archbishop Oppas, to find himself seconded by Julian with his forces, now
found that Julian himself was but the auxiliar of the infidel invader. It was at
the hour of vespers that the army of Roderick pitched its tents on the banks of the
Guadalete, and that night Pelayo and the archbishop, his uncle, met midway between
his own small array and the multitudes of the tyrant.

“To what feast is this you have brought me?” demanded Pelayo sternly of the
archbishop. “A feast where we furnish the food and are ourselves the prey. For
whom do we fight here, Lord Oppas? for Roderick or the Moors? for Spain or
Africa? Count Julian or yourself? Well, I trow that mine is to be a small share
in this business. Why am I here?”

The archbishop's explanations availed nothing.

“Hark ye, Lord Oppas,” was the conclusion of Pelayo—“I stand here in most
bitter opposition to ye all. You have humbled me to the earth, as you have brought
me to a pass where I may but look on the deeds of others, doing nothing of my
own. For what should I strive here? If I put in with Count Julian and against
Roderick, I but toil for the sons of Islam—the infidel Moor—the swarthy and
savage invader. If I strike against him, as it is my mood to do, I strike against
my brother's right and against my own—against my father's memory, against
Spain, and in behalf of a foul usurper. This is a strife, most like an agony, now
working in my soul. My will is feeble and knows not where to turn. My hands
are tied—I wist not where to strike. Verily, I must but look on, in waiting for
the mood; doing little in this conflict which approaches, unless it be in saving
from the scymitar the poor wretches of the land who follow only as they are
driven to the fight. Look to it then, lest, in what thou doest to-morrow, thou bring
the terrible curse of a foreign sway upon the land which a thousand generations
may never shake from its prostrate neck.”

They separated, the archbishop failing, with all his art, to disturb the first conclusions
to which the honorable mind of Pelayo had attained. Pelayo returned to
his heights, and the Lord Oppas proceeded with a guide to another interview in the
tents of the Arabian. Here, for the first time, he met with Taric. Here was Count
Julian also. Their schemes for the battle were to be adjusted, and the archbishop
was to make his conditions. He was to stipulate with Julian and Taric for a certain
share of that power which was to accrue from the defeat of Roderick. The ambitious
priest had his designs apart from the priesthood. An appetite for power was
raging in his heart, with other appetites of which nothing need be said. The Arabian
warrior readily conceded to the traitor all that he required. Taric had been impressed
with the numerous array of Roderick. Its splendor had dazzled his eyes,
and insensibly influenced his apprehensions. He knew his veterans, and he could

reasonably judge of the inferior training of the force opposed to him; but he as
well knew that such an inequality of numbers as existed between the two armies,
was not easily to be reconciled by any inequality of practice or even valor; and
he had no reason to suppose, that, if not veteran soldiers, those of Roderick were
at all deficient in bravery. He felt the policy, therefore, of acceding to any terms,
within certain limits, which might be proposed by Oppas as the price of his treachery
on the ensuing day. The archbishop left the tents of “the faithful” for his
own, perfectly satisfied with the result of his nocturnal expedition in this quarter.

10. CHAPTER X.

The night, according to the Arabian and Spanish historians, was one of auguries
and omens to both armies. Those which occurred in the tents of the Arabian were
all friendly and auspicious. Taric was cheered by a vision of the prophet, who
promised him success, and a prolonged triumph; while, in the tent of Roderick, as
he sate quaffing the red wine with some of his favorite nobles, a bearded pilgrim
suddenly appeared at the entrance of the tent, and spoke to him, in words, terrible
like those which appeared to Belshazzar, written at his fatal feast on the walls of
the chamber: “Thy sway hath departed from thee, Roderick! thy hours are
numbered! The Arabian sits within thy palace, and looks out upon thy people
for his own! He who would save himself must abandon thee! Wo! wo! to
thee and Spain!” Before the king could recover from his consternation at this sudden
vision and these awful words, the venerable stranger had disappeared. There
are those who assert that the speaker was no other than a Caulian monk, whom
the archbishop had suborned for this purpose, and thus tutored, that he might alarm
with new fears, and move to treachery like his own, certain of the nobles who sate
with Roderick that night. One with such an aspect was known to follow in the
army of the archbishop. This event was followed by another of even more inauspicious
omen. Going forth with the dawn of day, Roderick summoned to him a
noble called Ramiro, to whom he delivered the royal standard, charging him in the
usual language, to maintain it faithfully and at the peril of his life. Ramiro received
the standard, and as he waved it aloft with a triumphant grace, and a bold
delighted spirit, his horse grew unmanageable, and darting away beneath it, flung
him under his feet and trampled the royal standard in the dust. When the good
knight was lifted from the ground he was round to be dead. His neck was broken.
He never stirred once from the moment that he fell. This fatal event, which took
place in sight of both armies, was well calculated to encourage the one and to depress
the other. But the soul of Roderick seemed to grow stronger because of
these sinister aspects in his fortunes. The really brave man is always true to himself:
and a prouder feeling, the growth of a noble self-reliance, was kindled in his
heart, as, lifting the standard from the ground, he himself rode with it along the
plain of Xeres, waving it proudly aloft in the eyes of his assembled legions. The
sacrament was administered to Roderick, kneeling in his tent, by the hand of the
Bishop Urbino, the Lord Oppas being busy at the time making his own preparations
for the battle. “I have sinned before heaven and the sight of man, venerable father!”
said the usurper. “I have done cruel wrong to Julian, and my heart
shrinks from the meeting with him, alone, of all in the ranks of mine enemy!”

“Be of good cheer, my son,” replied the Urbino. “Remember thou goest forth
to battle in defence of thy faith and thy country. Thou goest forth representing

thy people and thy church, and art not simply the man whom men call Roderick.
Forget thyself in thy people and thy God, and holy mother will strengthen thee
against thy fear!”

“I repent me from that neavy sin, my father,” said the royal criminal, while a
deep tremor overspread his frame and grew apparent in the sound of his voice.

“And of all others, my son?”

“I would repent me. I would forswear them, but I am feeble and erring,
vicious by blood, and quickly led astray from better resolutions.”

“Be thou firm in thy desire for good; be thou faithful to thy fears and sorrows
for the evil done, and I grant thee the dispensation which flows abundantly with
grace. I assoil thee, Roderick, as thou art thus repentant, from past and present
sin. Go forth, for thy God and people, and the strength of thy God and thy people,
bring thee safely through the terrors of the foughten field.”

Urbino left the camp for a place of safety, while Roderick proceeded to take his
last farewell of Egilona. She, with the ladies of the court, had tents assigned her
contiguous to that of her husband. It was now the purpose of Roderick to send
her with Urbino to some distance from the field. But she refused with a stubbornness
of will which had not often been exhibited to her lord, to retire at his bidding.
For this resistance she had the secret counsel of the Archbishop Oppas. To afford
her husband the succor which he might need, it was essential that she should be
near him, and to this desire she religiously adhered. And Roderick's resolution
yielded to hers. In truth he had no apprehensions of the issue. He could not
doubt the capacity of his numerous masses to overwhelm the inferior armies of his
foe. He had no reason to doubt the courage of his people. He did not suspect the
treachery in his ranks. The auguries of the night had affected him much less than
his nobles, and those of the morning already recited—the death of Ramiro, and the
trampling of the consecrated standard in the dust—had not yet taken place. He
yielded to the loving and earnest entreaties of his wife, and left her, tearful and full
of fears, but glad that she had been permitted to remain in compliance with the
calls of duty near the person of her lord. His place in the tent was supplied by
the person of Lord Oppas. The last kiss of her husband was yet warm upon her
cheeks, when it was removed by the “holy” pressure of other lips. The patriarchal
blessing of the archbishop was to be enforced by the imposition of hands,
and the mailed glove removed from his fingers—for he was in full armor—they
once more wandered in forbidden places. And the pious and unsuspecting woman
looked up to the reverend father, and fancied she beheld before her one of those
mighty kings among the Jews, who, serving now before the altars of the Lord, and
now leading his armies forth to battle, were commissioned with a sort of universal
power, in correspondence with the great variety and compass of their moral endowments.
And, truly, the Lord Oppas was a person to impose this conviction
upon any spectator. We have already spoken of the nobleness and majesty of his
frame. He was not wanting in that solicitude which takes care that its habits and
ornaments shall properly correspond with what nature has done in his behalf. He was
clad from head to foot in armor of jet black, with a noble polish; on his left breast
was a cross in gold, and another glittering in blood-red rubies, was above his helmet.
He carried himself with the port of a prince. A person more noble moved not that
day in all the gorgeous ranks of the Gothic monarch; and it was with a sentiment
of delight and exultation that the secret glance of the archbishop detected the eyes
of Egilona as they followed the movements of his majestic form, with an expression
of admiration, the perfect innocence of which, founded as it was upon her
belief in his christian and spotless character, it did not enter his impure spirit to

conceive. He left her, with all his loathsome appetites and foul desires and purposes
more than ever active, with the secret hope that the events of the day, already
begun, were to gratify them with the fullest triumph. Of this we shall see
hereafter.

Roderick, destined to be the last king of the Goths, went forth to battle in the
luxurious state which had been so much affected by his predecessors. His robes
were of gold brocade, his sandals were embroidered with precious stones; he carried
the sceptre in his hand, and the royal crown, full of jewels of inestimable value,
upon his brows. The chariot in which he rode was of ivory, the axles of silver,
the wheels of burnished gold; the pole was plated with the same precious metal.
This sumptuous chariot was canopied with cloth of gold, embossed with armorial
devices, studded with jewels, and drawn by four milk white horses, caparisoned in
a style of like folly and magnificence. A body guard of a thousand youthful cavaliers
surrounded this precious car, which might well suggest the necessity of a far
greater force for its defence against a foe so eager and avaricious as the children of
Islam. These cavaliers were knighted for the occasion by the king's own hand,
and were sworn, as their especial charge, to defend his person to the last. This
spectacle of magnificence, according to Arabic historians, seemed to match the sun
in heaven. The hosts of Roderick shouted their wonder and delight as he passed
along their ranks and enjoined upon them to do their duty as became men fighting
for their country and their God. The sight of so much splendor had its effect upon
the Africans also. Old Taric, who knew them well, made it the occasion of a
speech appealing to their cupidity. “This Roderick,” said he, “would save us
the pains of looking after his treasure. Would he pay our soldiers or his own with
these precious jewels? Dreams he that we know not their value? Hear me, children
of the desert, and know, that, from this day, the brave man wears the jewel
that he wins!”

The rising of the sun was the signal for the conflict. The two armies drew nigh
to each other as his first smiles crimsoned the plain which they were soon to dye
in deeper colors. The forces of the Arabian descended in regular order, troop after
troop, from the gentle eminence which they occupied. Their advance was wild and
picturesque. Their long robes and turbans made their appearance equally majestic
and imposing in the sight of their enemies; while their several squadrons, each
habited after a fashion of its own, religiously preserving the custom of their homes
in the desert, rendered their exhibition quite as various and fanciful, though in a
less extravagant and expensive manner, as that of the gorgeous battallions of the
Goth. These, with sound of drum and trumpet—with equal show of valor, but
far less skill and order—bounded forward to the encounter. Their music was answered
by the clash of cymbals, and the wild, piercing cries of the distant horsemen.
The sun disappeared from sight as they rushed to the embrace of death;
clouds of dust enveloped them, through which could be seen the gleam of the
whizzing javelins and arrows, and could be heard the rattle of a thousand stones.
These were the missils of war in that period, and such a stony tempest as raged
that day, has left its trace upon the plain of Xeres even to the present. The troops
of Roderick, undefended in most part, by shield or buckler—for the criminal prudence
of Julian had despoiled the kingdom of the materials of war before his invasion
was begun—fought to manifest disadvantage. But their courage was equally
manifest, and their swarming multitudes more than compensated for the deficiency.
The old valor of the race shone out wondrously in the very moment of its extinction—even
as we are confounded at the sudden blazing up into brilliance of the
light which has long been dying in the socket. Their efforts promised to prevail.

The Moslems yielded before the reckless masses, as they flung themselves, troop by
troop, upon the ranks of the invader, and Taric el Tuerto, borne back by his own
legions, tore his beard in the agony of a conviction that the day had gone irretrievably
against him. It was at this moment—in the very crisis of his fortunes—that
Julian of Consuegra, who had hitherto employed his skirmishers rather than his
force, gave orders for the trumpet to sound thrice, a peculiar peal, which had been
agreed upon between himself and the archbishop. Scarcely had the sound subsided
upon the ear, when piercing and similar notes from the ranks of Roderick, gave
significant response from his accomplice.

“Now!” cried Count Julian, rising in his stirrups, and drawing the weapon of
vengeance from the sheathe—“Now, Roderick, thy hour has come!”

At the same moment, while the charge of Julian arrested the assailing and pursuing
Christians, now closely pressing on the heels of the flying Moslems, the
Archbishop Oppas, detaching his squadrons from the rest of the army, led them
suddenly against the centre of Roderick's array with a shock that was irresistible.
The rout followed—vain was the prowess of the monarch—vain the valor of his
nobles. They perished, man by man, fighting bravely to the last. Roderick himself
performed prodigies of valor. He had fought from his chariot, sending dart
and javelin, with fearful accuracy of direction, against every conspicuous foe; but
when, in the defection of Oppas and the terrible onslaught of Julian, the reverses of
the field began, he descended from the gorgeous car, and mounted his famous steed
Orelia, which had been kept in readiness for such emergencies. Thus mounted, his
sword made fearful havoc among the assailants. His valor maintained the fight,
and infused new courage into the hearts of his nobles. They emulated the reckless
and desperate strength and spirit which he displayed, and yielded themselves to
the slaughter, conscious rather that they were smiting as they fell, than of the fearful
pang and other trembling emotions of approaching death. Shouting a cheering
encouragement to such as survived, Roderick plunged forward to fresh encounters.
But a voice, wild and powerful, answered exultingly to his own, from a cloud of
combatants in front. It was the voice of Julian. It struck a deep terror to the
heart of Roderick. The reins fell upon the neck of his steed—then, as a second
time the fearful accents met his ear, he caught them up in his trembling hands,
wheeled the animal about, and plunging deeper than ever the rowel into his bleeding
sides, he fled from the battle, with a ghastly terror in the shape of the dishonored
Cava looking over his shoulders, and a prowling hate, in the aspect of her
gigantic father, close pursuing at his heels. He fled—fled wildly from his people—
and knew not in what direction his terror led.

11. CHAPTER XI.

The disappearance of Roderick from the field was the signal for a general rout.
The thousand brave young cavaliers who had formed his body guard, thinned terribly
in the previous conflict, now perished to a man in covering his flight. The
victory was soon complete, and the Arab and Bedouin horsemen hurried in the
dread pursuit, gleaning the fugitives with the edge of the scymitar as they vainly
sought refuge among the contiguous hills, or strove with uncertain and fainting
footsteps to shelter themselves within the neighboring town of Xeres. The pursuit
was unsparing and vindictive, and the slaughter terrible. The panic of the Asturian
army was such that they lacked the nerve to rally, and the few bodies of men that

endeavored to hold together, under cool and resolute leaders, were annihilated in
the onward sweep of the Moorish squadrons.

It was while the Arabians were thus hotly engaged in the pursuit of the fugitives,
or more gratefully occupied still in despoiling the gorgeous camp of Roderick, that
the Archbishop Oppas, at the head of a chosen body of men, followed the footsteps
of Egilona and the court. This wily priest had so admirably made his arrangements,
that his creatures directed the course of the flying cavalcade while his spies
followed close and reported to him its direction. It was with feelings of indescribable
exultation that he beheld his calculations all verified, and felt himself on the eve
of realizing all his audacious hopes. Already the objects of pursuit rose on his vision;
and the gorgeous and flowing robes of the women might be seen momently
gleaming to his eye, as they wound above the hills lying in the distance on the
right of the town of Xeres. The archbishop rose proudly in his stirrups. The
prey was already in his grasp, and, urging the pursuit with renewed energy, he overtook
the party in a dense thicket of chestnuts. His eye was fastened upon one victim
only, and singling her out from the rest, while his troops followed in pursuit
and dispersion of the queen's escort, he grasped the bridle rein of her steed, and led
his victim aside from the highway. The wife of Roderick and her traitorous confessor,
were alone together. He assisted her to dismount from her steed. He
smiled upon her—he spoke to her in the ancient fashion of saintly and patriarchal affection.
But he now spoke to her in vain. She was aware of his deception; she now
felt how fraudulent had been his mission. The lamb's skin had been torn from his
shoulders, and she now knew the wolf in his natural aspect. Farther deception
was in vain. Her kindling eyes, her haughty and reserved aspect, soon taught him
this; and, after a vain attempt to persuade himself that his old arts might yet be
renewed with profit, his impatient spirit, vexed at repulse, abandoned all farther
attempts at hypocrisy.

“At length,” said he “lovely Egilona, I may speak freely. I may declare
the passion with which thou hast inspired me so long, and which it has been so
maddening to conceal. If I erred, as thine eyes seem to reproach me, it is thy
beauties—those very eyes, which are to blame. Thou hast been the cause of my
error. For thee I have renounced the church, and put on the armor, with the spirit,
of the warrior. Be mine! As the wife of Lord Oppas, thy rule shall be in Spain
quite as sufficient and large as when thou wert the wife of Roderick. Roderick
lies upon the field of battle, never more to rise. Let the rites of the church bind
thee to one, whose love for thee, more true than that of Roderick, is yet more fervent
and considerate of the nature which dwells within thy heart.”

The answer of Egilona was that of scorn. She was no longer the devotee. She
was the woman and the queen.

“False traitor!” she exclaimed. “I loathe thee as the pestilence. Egilona thy
wife! Sooner let her perish!”

The face of the priest glowed as with fire beneath his visor. He removed his
helmet, and cast it upon the ground.

“Egilona!” said he, “art thou blind? Seest thou not we are alone together?”

“Approach me not, traitor. Forget not that I am the wife of thy sovereign.”

“He lives no longer.”

“I believe thee not.”

“I saw him fall before the sword of Julian.”

“Jesu spare and help me! Holy mother be my succor. Strengthen me that I
may not give ear to the falsehood of this traitor priest.”

Oppas had indeed spoken falsely. He knew nothing of the fate of the monarch.
Why should we prolong the parley? Why pursue the conference in which the

entreaties and arguments of the disloyal archbishop were answered only by the unvarying
scorn and loathing of the royal lady. His passion at length grew stronger
than his respect. He laid his hands upon her—not the patriarchal hands, gently
and tenderly laid, with which, quite as polluting then as now, he had before done
wrong to her sacred person. His touch now was that of open violence. His
muscular arms were folded about her delicate and exhausted form, while his lips,
priestly no longer, but wholly reckless and passionate, were fastened upon her
own with a desperate eagerness which seemed to drink a rapture akin to madness in
each draught. Her voice was stifled—her cries were silenced—she sank fainting to
the sward, and prayed for death from heaven.

Her prayer was answered in that very moment—not with death, but with safety.
The tread of a horse echoed through the grove. A wild strange voice was heard to
summon, and the archbishop, furious at the intrusion, turned savagely on the
stranger, and hurriedly lifted his sword from the ground where but a moment before
he had thrown it. The intruder was a Moor, and by his costume and bearing, a
person of distinction. He was armed after the Arab manner, with scymitar and
javelin and lance. His person was tall and slight, but eminently graceful and well
made. His air was very noble and his features particularly handsome. He was
young, scarcely more than twenty; but it could already be seen that he was one
destined for great achievement. He had been already heard in counsel, and his
deeds were already glorious among the Arabians. He was the son of Musa Ben
Nosier, and destined to arrive at distinctions to which even his ambitious sire had
never looked even in his fondest dreams of eminence. The noble and chivalrous
spirit of Abdalazis—for that was the name of the youthful Ishmaelite—revolted at
the spectacle before him; and, heedless of the dignity of Oppas, whom he at once
recognised, he called upon him, for shame, to quit his prey.

“By Allah!” said he, “Christian, these be not deeds which shall do thee honor.”

“Hence, Moor—away with thee from this presence ere I slay thee. Know me
for the Lord Oppas, confederate of Count Juhan of Consuegra. Away with thee
in pursuit. I will answer for my own deeds.”

“I know thee,” said the young man, “and will not leave this lady, whom I regard
as noble, in thy hands.”

Egilona had recovered from her swoon. Her exquisite beauties, her noble air,
had fixed the attentions of the Moor.

“Leave me not, I implore thee, to this man! He is mine enemy. Save me, I
entreat thee! I am the wife of Don Roderick, the lord and sovereign of the Goth
in Spain.”

At these words the young man lifted his hand to his turban, and knelt respectfully
before the royal lady.

“I will bear thee to a place of safety,” he exclaimed.

“Thou!” cried Oppas, who, in his rage, neither recognised the youth, nor knew,
perhaps, the rank which he held in the army of Taric. Possibly, even did he know,
at that moment he had not heeded the rank of the stranger. “Thou!” he cried, rushing
upon him with his weapon. Abdalazis recoiled before the terrible sweep of
the sword, drew quickly a javelin from the quiver at his side, and launched the
steel with unerring aim and force at the face of the assailant. The action was as
quick as light. The shaft sped recklessly to its mark. The bolt penetrated the
eye of the archbishop, and the sharp steel was buried in his brain. The gigantic
frame of Lord Oppas fell forward heavily upon the earth, which seemed to shake
beneath the fall. He writhed but in one convulsion at the feet of Egilona, and his
dark passions and fraudful life were at once at an end together.

It may be quite as well to suspend the progress of our story—though for a single

instant only—in order to indicate the fortunes of the two persons thus singularly
and happily brought together. The events of that meeting between Egilona and
Abdalazis constituted but the beginning of an interesting drama, terminating in his
final ascent to the throne of Spain, and his marriage with the widow of Roderick
the Goth. Let this suffice of their history. The chronicles go a step farther, and
it is more than suspected that the pure and lovely Egilona finally won the heart of
her Arab lover to the foot of the cross; a triumph of the wife and the devotee
which brought them both to the scaffold, victims to the brutal rage of a populace as
warmly devoted to Islam as Egilona was to Christ.

12. CHAPTER XII.

While these exciting events were in progress in one quarter of the field, what
was the fate of Roderick, and whither did his footsteps tend? With the vindictive
shouts of Julian ringing in his ears, conscience-stricken, he urged his noble steed—
the good steed Orelia, of which tradition has deemed it not beneath its care to preserve
some pleasing memorials for posterity—to the utmost powers of limb and
muscle, in the fond hope of escaping from the avenger. But, as eagerly as he fled
did the father of the unhappy Cava pursue. His instincts were all aroused and
unerring in the chase, and while the feet of Orelia were laving themselves in the
edges of the Guadalete, some seven miles from the field of battle, the steed of
Count Julian came thundering down the banks. The oozy surface of the marsh
on the sides of the river deceived the unhappy Roderick. Orelia, striving with
generous effort, in obedience to the voice and spur of the rider, became entangled
in the sedge and mire at the perilous moment, and, compelled to abandon her, Roderick
leapt from the saddle to the shore, only to meet with the avenger. Julian was
not the first to encounter with the fugitive monarch. This was a fortune reserved
to a valiant Moor, the captain of a select body of Bedouin horse, named Maguel
el Rami. Their weapons were already opposed, when, hot with haste, weary from
hard riding and fighting, and feeble from several wounds, Julian of Consuegra
dashed between them, and struck their swords asunder.

“God! how I thank thee that he lives,” was the first exclamation of the panting
sire! “Moor!” said he, turning to Maguel el Rami, “hadst thou slain him by thy
unwitting sword, all Barbary had not saved thee from my wrath. Away! choose
thee out other victims—leave this to me!”

He was obeyed! The Moor was in a moment out of sight.

“Roderick!” said Julian, “how I rejoice me thou dost survive this hour—that
thou livest to satisfy, however poorly, the hungry passion of revenge which is consuming
within my heart.”

“Slave!” cried Roderick, with a show of scorn and confidence which he did not
feel—“I am still thy king.”

“King! to be sure thou art! a king still—but none of mine! It is a part of my
rejoicing that I slay in thee a sovereign. The memory of Cava, her bloody wrongs,
call for no less a sacrifice. I would not rob thee of a single dignity. Nay, were
the passion of my heart once satisfied—could this thing be possible—I would restore
thee to thy power—restore myself again to Spain—and all for one small boon
which thou hast to bestow.”

“And that!” demanded Roderick, somewhat eagerly, deceived by the suddenly
subdued tones of the apostate, and the calm and, as he fancied, the gentle expression
of his eye. Roderick began to flatter himself with new hopes. He began

to think that Julian might possibly relent—might be bought off with new dignities
and treasures, and employ his power in repairing the injuries he had done to his
country. He built something upon the remorse of the apostate—

“What is that, Julian?” he repeated, as the other remained silent a moment too
long for his eager hopes—“What is that?”

“Thy blood! thy blood!—no petty drops—no small tribute, tyrant! idly drawn
to show me that thou hast blood in warm and ruddy veins. No! I must rend thy
heart from its black caverns! watch its pulsations—note where it beats most
quickly and with most life, and there execute my vengeance with keen steel—vexed
that so poor a vengeance, after all, must atone to me for my crushed honor, and
the tortured innocence of my child! Art thou prepared for this? Art thou ready
for thy death?”

“I am no coward, Julian!”

“Would I prate with thee, knew I not this? Hadst thou been, the Moor should
have despatched thee in my sight.”

“Julian!” said Roderick, “I have wronged thee deeply—sorely have I repented
of this wrong—sorely has my kingdom suffered from it, and I stand here ready to
await the issue of thy sword in the encounter. But what had thy country done to
thee, that thou must gore her with thy cruel weapon? What had these children
of the soil—these poor herdlings—the women and the children of the land—that
thou shouldst bring the wolf into the fold, and ravage the cities of thy people with
the havoc of the African?”

“That is the pang and the shame which thou must answer,” said Julian, with
the agony of hell speaking in his visage. “Thou hast spoken soothly. Thinkest
thou I feel nothing of my shame?—that I loathe not my own crime in this? But
it is thy crime, Roderick—it must be revenged on both of us. Come on! I look
not to survive this struggle. I am faint with many wounds, but thee I must slay!
That I feel and know. Thy doom is on the record! Prepare thee! This hour I
give thee to the sword!”

“I am ready! I will fight thee, Julian, to the last—yet not deny heaven's justice
if I fight with thee in vain.”

Fierce and terrible was the conflict. As if conscious of all his danger, Roderick
put on all his coolness and courage. He strove with moderate arm, simply at defence,
and his prudence baffled that of the avenger. The sword of Julian was smitten
asunder in the struggle. He stood weaponless before his foe. His battle-axe
was left upon his saddle bow. He looked aghast upon his enemy. In that one
moment Roderick forgot his caution.

“I am safe, Julian! Thou art unarmed, and at my mercy!”

“Traitor and tyrant, in thy teeth thou liest! No! Thou art at mine!”

At the risk of a fearful wound, which took effect upon his shoulder in a deep
gash, and upon his neck in a slight one, Julian closed in with his victim, grappled
him about the waist with a single arm, and with the hand of the other plucked the
dagger from the belt of Roderick, and struck with it, once, twice, thrice, to the very
heart of the monarch. This done, he flung him from his grasp—writhing and
gasping in a mortal agony upon the sands.

“This to thee, Cava! my child! This to thee, Frandina, the mother of my child!
And thou!—”

He turned to look upon Roderick. The eyes of the king were already glazed in
death. He himself sunk upon the ground, even as he gazed upon his victim.

“It is over! My limbs fail me! My strength. But it has sufficed. I have
lived long enough. My task is ended. Yet! that pang! that agony! It is here!

a dreadful fire in my brain!—Spain! Spain!—it is for thee I burn! Thou wilt
curse me! curse me with thy homes made desolate—thy fields ravaged—thy people
in captivity. A fearful vision grows up before my sight—the vision of a terrible
future from thy enemies and mine. Spare my eyes this spectacle of blood.
Ha! it is she! Does she reproach!—my child—my Cava! It was for thee—for
thee only that I wrought. Alas! and thou deniest me! thou! thou!—”

He raved. His form writhed beside that of Roderick. He grappled it with his
hands. His eyes swam. He no longer saw the objects around him, or he saw
them indistinctly. His hand still grasped the dagger with which he had given the
fatal blow to his enemy, and as the conviction was renewed in his mind that it was
still his enemy that he grappled, he smote again, once, twice, thrice, even as before
when he had slain him; then sinking back, he shrieked as with a shuddering and
terrible agony. His dying senses caught the sounds of approaching persons—the
heavy tread of cavalry. Voices reached his ears.

“Who comes?” he demanded, feebly striving to rise and look around him.

“What is here?” said one. “This surely is Roderick, the Goth. And here is
the royal robes and the crown.”

“That voice!” exclaimed the dying man: “Is it not Pelayo, son of Witiza,
whom I hear?”

“It is!” replied the speaker. “Who art thou?”

“Look on me!”

“Julian!”

“Ay! and nothing. Thy brother—he who loved my daughter—he sleeps by
Cueta. I saved him from this day. Thou, Pelayo, art the rightful king in Spain.
Save her from the Africans. My prince, place thy sword before me, that I may
behold the cross ere I perish. Give it me—in my hands. Give!—give!”

“There! seize it quickly—press it to thy lips. It is thy last refuge!”

“Jesu! mercy!”

In these words the spirit passed. The young prince knelt over the corse in
prayer, while his followers, lifting the crown of Roderick from the earth where it
lay, placed it upon the brows of Pelayo. The sky then rang with their unanimous
shouts as they proclaimed, in a burst of popular enthusiasm, “Pelayo! King of
Spain!” He proved himself deserving of the title, and became the real founder of
that marvellous race, whose deeds in after centuries, in Europe and America, were
among the greatest marvels of human performance. His power did not suffice to
expel the Arabs from his country, but he prepared the way for their final expulsion,
and preserved the sacred fires of liberty, secure from extinction, in the wild
passes of the Asturian mountains.

Pelayo gazed upon the body of Roderick with melancholy contemplation.

“He was the deadly enemy of my home and country. To him we owe the
dreadful desolation of this field. But let not the brows which have worn the
crown of the Goth, be subject to the indignity of barbarian hoofs. Lift him upon
your shoulders, my friends, and let the Xeres bear him to the sea!”

It was done, and vainly did Taric el Tuerto look for the royal victim. The
gory head of a noble Gothic cavalier, whose features resembled those of Roderick,
was sent, as a sufficient trophy, to the Caliph at Damascus, while the deep waters
which could not hide the history and the shame, effectually kept from indignity the
person of the “Last King of the Goths!”