Old Court Life in Spain; vol. 1

“Would to God, my father, that the earth had swallowed me ere I came to Toledo! What am I to tell you of that which it is meet to conceal? Alas! my father, your lamb has been entrusted to the wolf. She were better dead than dishonoured. Hasten to rescue your unhappy Florinda. Come quickly.”

Tying this brief missive in a square of silk, and fastening it with a ribbon, she called to her a young page, bred at her father’s court, who had been especially appointed to her service.

“Adolfo,” said she, and sobs were in her voice, “saddle the swiftest steed you can lay hands on, and if ever, dear niño, you aspire to the honours of a belted knight in the service of my father, or hope for lady’s grace in the tourney; if ever – ” here she burst into a flood of tears, moved by her own vehemence. “Oh, sweet Adolfo, dear little page, reared up in my home, for the love of Christ, ride day and night until you reach the sea. Then, at the price of gold, which I give you,” and she placed in his hands a heavy purse, “take the best boat and the swiftest rowers, and with flowing sail speed to my father at Ceuta, nor eat nor drink until you have placed this writing in his hand.”

Before the eager Florinda, whose every feature spoke the deadly anxiety she felt, the page, cap in hand, bowed low.

“Trust me, noble daughter of my honoured lord. I will truly execute your trust. Swiftly will I ride, nor turn aside for aught but death, either by land or sea.”

Placing the letter in the bosom of his gaudy vest, he kissed her hand and sped his way, mounted a fast horse he found in the patio of the Palace, galloped down the declivity, through the Golden Gate, and so on into the eternal plains which gird about Toledo, until clouds of dust concealed him from Florinda’s anxious gaze.

Meanwhile, Julian, fighting valiantly in Africa, had just repulsed an attack of Mousa on the castle of Ceuta, standing on a cape which juts out into the Straits, the nearest point to the Spanish mainland. It was a desperate struggle; the Moors, under the command of the famous Arabs, rallying again and again.

The news of such a success spread round not only in Africa but over all the breadth of Spain. The landing of the Moors in Andalusia was a constant subject of terror on the mainland. Men knew that the Gothic nation no longer held together as under the early kings, and that each chief looked to himself alone, caring but little what became of his neighbours. The castles were dismantled by the selfish policy of Witica and Roderich, and the army was sunk into the same luxurious ease as the rest of the nation.

The name of Julian was soon on every lip. He was hailed as a saviour, and blessings invoked on him as the bulwark of the Cross.

With the sound of this homage ringing in his ears, the page arrives at Ceuta, bearing the letter from Florinda. Julian at once summons him to his tent, as perchance the bearer of some signal honour bestowed upon him by the king, or of some royal recompense for his services.

“What tidings from Don Roderich?” he asks.

“None, my lord,” is the answer. “I rode in haste away, without seeing the king. What I bear is a letter from the Lady Florinda.”

“Florinda – how fares she?”

“Well, my lord,” answers the page, as he takes the silken packet from his bosom.

Cutting the ribbon that binds it with his dagger, Julian reads the miserable lines; word after word brings a terrible certainty to his mind; he stands in speechless anguish, then, flinging the parchment from him, he folds his arms, while one by one the burning remembrance of each act of devotion to Roderich stings him to the soul. It is a terrible reckoning; a dark and malignant fury enters into his soul, not only against Roderich, but against all Spain, the scene of his dishonour, the home of his disgrace.

“And this,” cries he, when words come to his lips, “is my reward for serving a villain! This is the return he makes me for the hostage of my child! May I die a slave if I rest until I have given him full measure in return!”

CHAPTER IV

Don Julian Goes over to the Moors

JULIAN’S first object is, without exciting suspicion, to remove his daughter from Toledo. Full of the project of revenge, he crosses the Straits and repairs to the Court. Wherever he appears is hailed as the leader to whose prowess the nation owes its safety. Roderich, counting on the silence of Florinda, receives him with a frank and generous welcome, and loads him with new honours. Julian, meanwhile, artfully magnifies the present danger which threatens the frontier, and prepares all things for his return to Africa. For Florinda he obtains leave of absence from the queen “to attend upon her mother Frandina, dangerously ill at Algeciras.” Together they cross the bridge of the Tagus, followed by the shouting populace, but as his horse’s hoofs strike on the opposite bank he raises his mailed hand, and shakes it in the air as he turns his eyes towards the Alcazar.

“My curse rest on thee, Don Roderich!” are his words. “May desolation fall on thy dwelling and thy realm!”

Journeying on with Florinda, he came to a wild range of mountains near Consucara – still called the Mountain of Treason – where he meets his kinsman, Archbishop Opas, and his wife Frandina, a formidable amazon, who not only followed her lord in battle, but concentrated in herself all the duplicity of her brother.

She had long hated Roderich for his marriage with Egilona, now she could revenge herself.

“I would rather die,” she exclaims, as she gazed at Florinda, prostrate at her feet, “than submit to this outrage!”

“Be satisfied,” replies Don Julian; “she shall be avenged. Opas will bind our friends by dreadful oaths. I myself will go to Africa to seek great Mousa, and negotiate his aid.”

From Malaga Julian embarked for Africa with Frandina and Florinda, his treasure and his household, and ever since the gate in the city wall through which they passed has been called Puerta de la Cava (Gate of the Harlot), by which name the unhappy Florinda was known among the Moors.

The dark tents of the Moslems were spread in a pastoral valley at the foot of the billowy chain of hills which follow along the north of Barbary (as it was called of old), outshoots from the great Atlas range which towers in the far distance. A motley host from Egypt and Mauretania – Saracens, Tartars, Syrians, Copts, and Berbers, – all, Christian or Moslem, fair-skinned or negro, united under the banner of Mousa, Governor of North Africa for the Caliph of Damascus, a man long past middle life, but who concealed his years cunningly.

As Mousa sits to administer justice among the mixed tribes of his host, raised on a divan covered with sheep-skins, under a wide-spreading oak, near which a rapid streamlet runs down into the sea, the flag of Islam floating beside him, Tháryk, his lieutenant, on his right hand, a bugle sounds from above among the hills, and the gay apparel of a herald appears in the distance, attended by a single trumpeter. Cautiously descending the steep path among a forest-like grove, the herald, bearing on his tabard the Gothic arms, pauses at the base; the trumpeter sounds another loud blast, then both ride boldly into the circle gathered round Mousa. After an obeisance, responded to in silence by the astonished Moors, he speaks, lowering his cognisance before the chief: “I demand,” says he, “a safe passage for my master, Don Julian Espatorios of Spain, under King Roderich the Goth. Can he come without danger to life and limb and depart when he lists?”

To which Mousa, touching with the tips of his fingers the folds of the green turban which he wears, then carrying them down and crossing them on his chest, in an Eastern salute of ceremony replies:

“The demand of Don Julian is granted. Let my noble adversary advance without fear. So brave a leader shall eat of our salt were he ten times our foe.”

Clad in a complete suit of armour, and mounted on a powerful charger, Julian appears. A surcoat of black is over his armour, his legs are encased in fluted steel, and on his helmet rests a sable plume. Behind him rides his esquire, bearing his lance and shield. With grave courtesy he salutes the Moslem chiefs whom he has so lately defeated, then, upon the motion of Mousa, who rises at his approach, he dismounts, and, flinging the bridle to his esquire, takes the place assigned to him.