II.
The Cid in Exile.
Next night once more in that Cathedral keep
Walled by its mother-rock the warriors watched:
After long silence, leaving not his seat,
At length there spake a noble knight and brave,
Don Aquilar of Gabra: low his voice;
His eyes oft resting on the altar lights,
At times on listener near:
‘Sirs, all applaud the Conqueror: braver far
Our Cid that hour when he refused the battle:
I heard that tale in childhood.’ ‘Let us hear it,’
The others cried; and thus that knight began:
Our King, Ferrando, nighing to his death,
Beckoned the Cid and spake: ‘We two were friends;
Attend my dying charge. My race is Goth,
And in the brain, and blood, and spirit of Goth
Tempest but sleeps to waken. I have portioned
My kingdom in three parts among my sons,
Don Sanchez, Don García, Don Alphonso,
And throned my daughter in Zamora's towers:
When bickerings rise, sustain my testament.’
He died; his son, King Sanchez, was a churl:
One day he rode abroad: at set of sun
Zamora faced him: many-towered it stood
Crowning a rock and flinging far its shade
O'er Douro's crimsoned wave. He muttered low:
‘Yon city mine, all Spain were mine.’ That night
Thus spake he, careless seeming, to the Cid:
‘Ill judged my father dowering with yon fort
A woman-hand. At morn search out that woman;
Accost her thus from me: “My kingdom's flank
Lies bare: it needs for shield thy city's fortress.
I yield to thee Medina in its place
Tredra not less.”’ Ill pleased, the Cid replied,
Though reverent not concealing his displeasure:
‘Send other herald on that errand, King!
Ofttimes, a boy I dwelt in yonder fort
When lodged therein Ferrando and Urraca,
And will not wrong your father's testament.’
King Sanchez frowned. Unmoved, the Cid resumed:
‘I take thy missive, King, and bring her answer,
But proffer service none.’ At morn he placed
That missive in Urraca's hand; she rose;
And raised her hands to heaven and answered fierce:
‘His brother, Don García, he hath bound;
His brother, Don Alphonso, driven to exile;
Elvira next, my sister and his own,
He mulct of half her lands; he now mulcts me!
Swallow me, earth, if I obey his hest!
Cid! thee I blame not, for I know thy heart!
Forth with my answer to my traitor brother!
Zamora's sons and I will die ere yet
I yield her meanest stone to force or fraud.’
Then spake the Cid: ‘The answer of a queen,
And meet for King Ferrando's child! Urraca,
This sword shall ne'er be raised against thy right!
My knighthood was in part through thee conferred.’
The Cid returned: King Sanchez stormed and raged:
‘This work is thine!’ Unmoved, my Cid replied,
‘True vassal have I proved to thee, O King,
But sword against the daughter of thy sire
I will not lift.’ King Sanchez: ‘For his sake
I spare thy life! Henceforth thou livest an exile!’
Low bowed the Cid. Bivar he reached that night,
And summoning all his knights, twelve hundred men,
Rode thence and reached Toledo.
Sirs, ere long
God dealt with that bad man. Three days his host
Fought malcontent: grimly they scaled the walls;
Zamora's sons hurled on them stones and rocks
The battlements themselves, till ditch and moat
Thickened with corpses, and the Douro left
Daily a higher blood-line on those walls
While whispered man to man; ‘Our toil is lost,
He spurned our best; what cares he for men's lives?’
Then from Zamora sped a knight forsworn
By name Vellido Dolfos, crafty man,
Fearless in stratagem, in war a coward.
Like one pursued he galloped to the camp,
Checked rein at Sanchez’ tent, and, breathless, cried:
‘King, I had slain thee gladly yesternight;
This day a wronged man sues thee. Sir, revenge
'Gainst thy false sister is the meed I claim,
Thy sister kind to caitiffs, false to friends!
I know a secret postern to yon fort;
It shall be thine this night.’ ‘Who sees believes,’
Sanchez replied; ‘That postern—let me see it!’
They rode to where the forest's branching skirt
Screened it from random eyes. The King dismounted,
And, companied by that traitor knight alone,
Peered through that postern's bars. With lightning speed
The traitor launched his javelin 'gainst the King;
It nailed him to that ivy-mantled wall:
Vellido through the woodland labyrinths scaped.
The king ere sunset died.
Don Sanchez dead,
At once, from exile King Alphonso burst:
The Cortes met: with haughty brow he claimed
Allegiance due, like one who knows his rights,
Full sovereignty, God-given, and not from man,
Of Leon and Castile. They gave consent;
At Burgos in procession long and slow
The knights and nobles passed, and passing kissed
Each the King's hand. Alone the Cid stood still.
Astonished sat the King. He spake: ‘The Cid
Alone no homage pays.’ The Cid replied:
‘Sir, through your total realm a rumour flies,
And kings, all know, must live above suspicion—
That in your brother's death a part was yours:
Sir, in his day your brother did me wrong:
I, for that wrong am none the less his vassal:
Make oath, sir King, that rumour is a lie!
Till then from me no homage!’ Silent long
Alphonso sat: then ‘Be it so,’ he said.
Next day he rode to Burgos' chiefest church,
And there heard Mass. About him stood that hour
His nobles and hidalgos: Mass surceased,
Crowned, on a dais high, in sight of all
Alphonso sat: behind him stood twelve knights:
Slowly my Cid advanced, upon his breast
Clasping the Gospels open thrown. The King
Laid on them hands outspread. Then spake my Cid:
‘I swear that in my brother's death no part
Was mine.’ Low-bowed, Alphonso said, ‘I swear;’
Likewise his twelve hidalgos. Then the Cid:
‘If false my oath, mine be my brother's fate.’
Alphonso said ‘Amen’; but at that word
His colour changed. With eye firm-fixed my Cid
Slowly that oath repeated; and once more
The King and his hidalgos said ‘Amen!’
Three times he spake it; thrice the monarch swore:
Then waved the standards, and the bells rang out;
And sea-like swayed the masses t'ward the gates.
Parting, Alphonso whispered to my Cid—
None heard the words he spake.
It chanced one day
The King, from Burgos riding with his knights,
Met face to face whom most he loathed on earth.
With lifted hand he spake: ‘Depart my land!’
The Cid his charger spurred; o'er-leaped the wall;
Then tossing back his head, loud laughing cried,
‘Sir King, 'tis done! This land is land of mine!’
Raging the King exclaimed: ‘Depart my realm
Ere the ninth day!’ My Cid: ‘Hidalgo's right
By old prescription yields him thirty days
If banished from the realm.’ Alphonso then:
‘Ere the ninth eve, or else I take thy head!’
Low bowed Rodrigues to his saddle bow
And rode to Bivar. Summoning there his knights
Briefly he spake: ‘You see a banished man.’
They answered nought. Then Alvar Fanez rose
And said: ‘With thee we live; for thee we die,’
And rising, all that concourse said: ‘Amen.’
The eighth day dawned: My Cid from Bivar rode;
Whilst yet his charger pawed before its gate
He turned, and backward gazed. Beholding then
His hall deserted, open all its doors,
No cloaks hung up, within the porch no seat,
No hawk on perch, no mastiff on the mat,
No standard from the tower forth streaming free
Large tears were in his eyes; but no tear fell;
And distant seemed his voice—distant though clear
Like voice from evening field, as thus he spake:
‘Mine enemies did this: praise God for all things!
Mary, pray well that I, the banished man,
May drive the Pagans from His holy Spain,
One day requite true friends.’ To Alvar next
He spake: ‘The poor have in this wrong no part;
See that they suffer none;’ then spurred his horse.
Beside the gate there sat an aged crone
Who cried, ‘In fortunate hour ride forth, O Cid!
God give thee speed and spoil!’
They reached old Burgos
At noontide, while for heat the dogs red-tongued
Slept in the streets. The King had given command
‘Let no man lodge the Cid, or give him bread!’
As slowly on his sixty warriors rode
And gazed on bakers' shops, yet touched no loaf
The gentle townsmen wept, ‘A sorry sight!’
Women were bolder: ‘Vassal good,’ they cried,
‘To churlish Suzerain!’ The Posado's gate
He smote three times with spear-shaft: none replied.
At last beneath its bars there crept a child
Dark-eyed, red-lipped, a girl of nine years old,
Clasping a crust. Sweet-toned she made accost:
‘Great Cid, we dare not open window or door
The King would blind us else. Stretch down thy hand
That I may kiss it!’ At her word my Cid
Stretched down his hand. She kissed it, hiding next
Therein the crust, and closing one by one
O'er it the mail-clad fingers. Laughed my Cid:
‘God's saints protect that shining head from hurt
And those small feet from ways unblest, and send
In fitting time fit mate.’ The sixty laughed:
Once more the child crept in beneath the bars:
They noted long the silver feet upturned
With crimson touches streaked. That night my Cid
Couched on a sand plain with his company
The palm-boughs rustling 'gainst their stems thickscaled.
Half-sleeping thus he mused. ‘Could I, unworthy,
So all unlike that child in faith and love,
Have portioned out that crust among my knights
God might have changed it to a Sacrament
And caused us in the strength thereof to walk
Full forty days.’
Ere yet the bird of Dawn
In neighbouring farm its earliest clarion rang
The Cid had mounted; reached ere nones that haunt
Wherein his wife had taken sanctuary,
San Pedro de Cardena. At the gate
He blew his battle-horn. They knew it well!
Rushed forth Ximena and her ladies first:
O what a weeping was there at his feet!
Then followed many a monk with large slow eyes:
The abbot long had wished to see the Cid;
And now rejoiced: the feast was great that day
And great the poor man's share; and chimed the bells
So loudly that the King, in Burgos throned,
Frowned but spake nought. Next day two hundred knights
Flocked to the Cid's white standard. On the third,
Ere shone its sunrise, by that Abbey's gate
My Cid for blessing knelt, then spake: ‘Lord Abbot,
Be careful of my wife, Donna Ximena,
For princelier lady stands not on this earth
Of stouter courage or of sweeter ways:
Likewise breed up my babes in holy life;
Thy convent shall not lack, and if I die
God is my banker and will pay my debts.’
Next, to her lord Ximena with slow steps
Made way, and knelt; and weeping thus she spake:
‘Sundered ere death! I knew not that could be!’
Their parting seemed like parting soul and body.
Last came two ladies with his daughters twain.
He took them in his arms: his tears fell on them
Because they wept not but bewildered smiled;
And thus he spake: ‘Please God, with Mary's prayers,
I yet shall give these little maidens mine
With mine own hand to husbands worthy of them.’
He said; and shook his rein, nor once looked back;
And the rising sun shone bright on many a face
Tear-wet in that dim porch.
Then spake a knight
Revered by all, Don Incar of Simancas
With strenuous face, keen eyes, and hectic hand:
A stripling I, when first that war began;
Rapturous it was as hunting of the stag
When blares the horn from echoing cliff and wood,
And deer-like bound the coursers. Sport began
Nigh to Castregon; next, like wind it rushed
To Fita, Guadalgara, and Alcala,
Thence to Heneres, and Torancio's plain,
And the olive-shaded gorge of Bobierca.
We crossed its dark-bright stream. A Moorish maid
Sold us red apples, and from wells snow-cold
Drew water for our mules. Our later deeds
Fade from my mind. We captured castles twelve
And raised the Cross upon them. Once dim mist
Lifted at morn shewed Moors uncounted nigh;
We stood in doubt. Our standard-bearer cried;
‘Sustain your standard, sirs; or if it please you,
Consign it to the Moors!’ He galloped on;
The dusky hordes closed round him. Torrent-like
We dashed upon them! Soon the morning shone
Through that black mass. The standard saved the host,
And not the host the standard. Likewise this
Clings to my memory trivial as it seems:
At Imbra, when the Moors bewailed their kine
Snatched from its golden mead, my Cid replied:
‘God save you, sirs! My King and I are foes.
In exile gentlemen must live on spoil.
What! would you set us spinning flax or wool?
Not kine alone, but all your vales and plains
Are ours by ancient right! To Afric back!
This land is Spain—our Spain!’
That warfare past,
My Cid addressed him thus to Alvar Fanez:
‘Cousin, betake thee to that saintly place,
San Pedro, where abide my wife and babes:
Raise first those Moorish banners in its aisles,
Then noise abroad thy tidings. Greet with spoil
That abbot old. Seek last the King, Alphonso:
Give him his fifth: make no demand in turn;
Much less request. I wait not on his humours.’
Alvar went forth: In fair Valladolid
Ere long he met Alphonso with his train
Half way betwixt the palace and cathedral
Recent from Mass. The monarch—without greeting—
‘What means yon train of horses trapped in gold,
And swords inwrought with gems?’ Alvar replied
‘Sir King, my Cid bestows them on your Highness,
The fifth part of his spoil: for battles still
He wins, and wide domains, and tower, and town.
King, if the Cid but kept the lands he conquers
Half Spain would be his realm. Content he is
To hold them from your Grace in vassalage.
Therefore restore him to your royal favour!’
Alphonso then: ‘'Tis early in the morn
To take a banished man to grace and favour!
'Twere shame to stint my wrath so soon. For spoil,
Kings need not spoil! Not less, since thus the Moors
Are stripped, his work is work of God in part:
Let him send still my fifth!’
Then laughing spake
A humorous knight, Don Leon of Toledo:
Ay, ay, our King can jest when jest means gold!
Our Cid could jest with lions in his path!
A hundred tales attest it: this is one:
Here dwelt he long in royal state. One day
It chanced, the banquet o'er, asleep he fell
Still seated on the dais for the noon
Was hot, while talked or laughed the noble guests
Ranged as their custom was around his board;
His palace held some guests beside hidalgos
That day, and one from Afric, not a Moor;
A lion's cage stood in the outer court;
Its door was left ajar. Scenting the meat
That lion reached at last the banquet chamber:
The ladies screamed: the warriors drew their swords:
The Infantes twain of Carrion most were mazed;
The elder backed into a wine-vat brimmed
Purpling the marble floors; the youngest crept
Beneath the board to where the Cid was throned
And quivering clasped his feet. The Cid awoke;
Rubbed first his eyes; gazed round him; marked that lion;
Advanced, though still half sleeping; by the mane
Drew him obedient as a mastiff hound;
Relodged him; barred his prison; re-enthroned
His own brave bulk. The knights pushed back their swords:
The Infantes strove to laugh: the ladies smiled;
A priest gave thanks in Latin, first for meat,
Next that that beast had failed on them to banquet;
Ere ceased that grace my Cid again slept well;
Sole time, men say, he ever slept at prayer,
Albeit at sermons oft.
Sir Incar next;
Your boasters see not far! Fortune ere long
On King Alphonso cast a glance oblique,
For vassals weak and meek grew strong and haughty;
And when huge tracts were flooded now, now parched,
Men cried ‘our King is bad.’ That King sent gifts
Suing the Cid's return. The Cid replied:
‘To others gifts! for me my lands suffice.
My King commands my sword; my terms are these:
“To each hidalgo thirty days, not nine,
Shall stand conceded ere his banishment,
And courts beside wherein to plead his cause.
Next, charters old shall have their reverence old
As though their seals were red with martyrs' blood.
Lastly the King shall nowhere levy tax
Warring on law. Such tax is royal treason:
Thus wronged, the land is free to rise in arms.”’
Long time the King demurred; then frowned consent;
And there was peace thenceforth. That day arose
This saying: ‘Happy exile he that home
Returning to his country, bring her gifts.
His rest shall be in Heaven.’
No tale beside
Succeeded. Sweetly and slowly once again
From that remote high altar rose a hymn
Tender and sad: that female train once more
Approached it two by two, with steps as soft
As though they trod on hearts—Ximena last;
And star by star the altar lights shone out.
The knights arose, and, moving t'ward the east
Knelt close behind those kneelers.
