Old Court Life in Spain (Vol.1&2). Frances Minto Elliot
the great Plaza where he stands, and the long-suppressed tears well over and run down his furrowed cheeks, at the thought that these fair lands and the white city, so jocund in the sun, with avenues of spreading palms, and plane-trees, and jasmine-planted gardens, shall fall.
“Citizens,” he says, turning to the hundreds whose eager eyes are fixed on him as shipwrecked mariners note the advance of a raft in a stormy sea, “I swear to stand by you to the end. I will undertake the defence of your city.”
A solemn oath is registered there on the Plaza (still planted with palms and called now del gran Capitan, in memory of another great leader, Gonsalo de Cordoba), a solemn oath, and as a sign of accepting all held up their right hands.
But, shameful to relate, so soon as the scouts bring word of the advance of the victorious Moors, every wealthy burgher within Cordoba packs up his goods and flees to the deepest recesses of the Sierra. The monks abandon their convents, the women follow, and only the poor and destitute are left to the mercy of the invaders.
To the sound of drums and cymbals the Moors march in. In front rides the Christian renegade, Maguel, his turbaned head decorated with the crescent of command, his war-horse carrying strings of Christian heads, dropping blood upon the stones. Next is Julian, a dark scowl upon his face, as of a man carrying a load of care. How well he knows each tree and huerta and tower along the march—the little creek in the Guadalquivir, where the boats are moored; a lone castle of defence, looking towards the hills (now called “of Almodar”), he often has defended against the wild forays of the Arabs; the Sierra broken into cliffs and precipices, with groves and gardens, and silvery streams, studded by quintas and hamlets. There, in a green retreat among the wooded hills, he and Frandina had lived when Florinda was a child. Here, in the Alcazar, he had met Don Roderich; and the remembrance fills him with such sudden rage, he digs his spurs into the smooth flanks of his Arab charger, an uncalled-for violence, resenting which, the fiery animal rears, and half unseats him.
Yes, it was at Cordoba that he consigned Florinda to his care, the fair-faced profligate. There he parted from her, guileless as a babe, and now, through the length and breadth of Spain, she is known by the name of La Cava. He himself is but a vile renegade. Already the poison of jealousy is working at his heart. The Moors distrust him, though they owe all to him. Where would “the one-eyed” have been but for him? And Mousa, and Maguel, and the rest? And such an uncontrollable burst of wrath passes over him that he curses aloud. At least he was the first in the court of Roderich, and now, who knows when Andalusia is conquered and the Moors need him no more, what form their suspicion may assume?
Then came to his mind uneasy thoughts of Frandina and of his son. For himself he cares not. A dagger thrust can settle all his fate—but the boy! his only son! Is he safe under his mother’s care? May he not be made a hostage by Tháryk?
THE GOLDEN TOWER, SEVILLE.
Already the scent of treason is in the air!
Here a wild clamour breaks in upon his thoughts. The white walls of Cordoba are in front, and a mighty shout of “Allah! there is no God but Allah, and Mahomet is his Prophet,” rises from a thousand throats of swarthy Africans, careering wildly over the grass, Numidians, with fringed bands and armlets on elbow and ankle, sun-dried sheikhs and wandering Kalenders and Fakirs in the front of the great army, mounted on camels and mules.
For three long months Pelistes, well-named the “Father of the Goths,” defended the battered Convent of St. George, within which he barricaded himself. Hope of succour supports his courage. Teodomir may come, or young Pelayo, from Asturia or Leon.
But day follows day, and night passes on to night, under the lustre of the southern stars, and no help comes. Eager eyes hail every cloud of dust that sweeps the plain, and interpret dark shadows of the clouds, which summer tempests cast, into troops of Christian knights approaching. Alas! no human form is visible, save now and then an Arab horseman, riding with light rein, charged with some mission from Mousa in the south.
Famine, too, comes to try them with its ghastly face. One by one they kill the horses, which had carried them so gallantly from the Guadalete (to a trooper an act as repulsive as the murdering of his child), and strive with divers ills which hunger brings.
Pelistes, unable to bear the sight of the sufferings of his friends, assembles what remains of the miserable garrison, and thus speaks his mind:
“Comrades,” he cries, in a voice which he endeavours to make cheerful, “it is needless to conceal danger from brave men; our case is desperate. One by one we shall die and leave no sign. There is but one chance, and I shall brave it. To-morrow, before break of day, I will ride forth disguised as one of these base renegades of whom there are so many in Cordoba, and, God willing, spur on to Toledo. If my errand prosper, I shall be back in twenty days. If not, at least I shall return to die with you. Keep a sharp lookout! Five beacon fires blazing on the lowest line of hills mean success. If not, the blackness of despair engulfs me.”
And so it was. As the faint streaks of light tipped the craggy tops of the Sierra with points of gold, warning the shepherds to rise and tend their sheep, and the birds flew low, waiting for further light to wing their course into the upper regions of the air, Pelistes rode forth, a turban on his head, along the silent streets of Cordoba, to which the shadows of long lines of wall give such an Eastern aspect. He passed the gate, but lazily guarded at that early hour, unchallenged, in company with droves of cattle and mules laden with sacks. Then, pricking the sides of his willing horse, he galloped at full speed along the tracks which mount upwards, and, ere the sun rose, had gained the lower spurs of the Sierra.
At the gateway of a quinta he draws rein, willing to rest his panting steed. But alas! while he tarries the sound of horses’ hoofs, riding at topmost speed over the rocky path he has just traversed, smites his ear. In an instant he is again in the saddle, and straining upwards to conceal himself in a rugged hollow beside the dried-up course of a mountain torrent.
His tired horse, wind-blown and trembling, falters at the edge and falls, rolling with Pelistes to the bottom. Greatly shaken and bleeding, Pelistes extricates himself with difficulty and strives to raise his horse, but when the generous beast, rising with a groan to his master’s call, stands up, it falls again on the hard stones, unable to keep its feet.
Meanwhile, on comes the horseman through the falling stones, and a face he knows too well looks over the brink of the ravine, and a voice calls out, “Well met, brave Pelistes, even in a hole. You have ridden bravely from Cordoba, and are well mounted. We followed you ill, but here we are in time.”
The voice is that of Maguel. For all reply, Pelistes, standing by his horse, draws his sword.
“Do you bandy words with me as a coward!” he thunders, brandishing his weapon. “Stand forth! If you are a man, tie your horse to a tree and come down on foot. We will see who is the better man, a Christian renegade or a Gothic knight.”
And fight they did, and desperately, as if each held a nation’s ransom at his sword’s point. Better matched warriors never clashed steel. Fragments of shields flew around; then casques were split, and blood flowed freely. Still they fought. At length Pelistes, who had been much injured by his fall, began to show signs of weakness, and Maguel perceiving this, pressed on him the more, until Pelistes, summoning all his remaining strength to strike a final blow, failed in his aim and fell prostrate on the earth.
“This is a brave foe,” quoted Maguel to his followers, who, renegade though he was, we must allow had generous qualities or he would have run Pelistes through. “Let us save his life, such a knight will honour our triumph.” So, unlacing his buckler, they throw water on his face, and raise him upright against a barrier of rock.
Though plunged in a deep swoon, Pelistes lived, and strapped to a stout palfrey reached Cordoba.
When the imprisoned captives, straining their eyes for any sign, see him surrounded by dusky Africans, to their eyes a bleeding corpse, their very souls seem dead within them. Pelistes gone, no help can