“I am he whom thy people call ‘The White Knight.’”
“The White Knight?” cried El Zagal, with a fierce gleam in his large black eyes. “Nay, if thou be indeed that fell foe of my race and of the true faith, my blade shall reach thee, though Azraël (the Angel of Death) claim me the next moment!”
Down came his blade on Alured’s helmet, with such a thunder-stroke that the knight reeled in his saddle, and his barred visor, broken from its clasps, fell clanking to the earth.
But, so far from seconding a blow that had brought victory within his grasp, the Moor let fall his terrible scimitar, and stared at his foe’s revealed face in mute and stony horror. Had the falling visor disclosed a skeleton or a demon, instead of the knight’s noble face, El Zagal could not have looked more astounded and dismayed.
Alured, though not in the least understanding his foe’s sudden panic, was swift to profit by it. Quick as thought, he clutched the emir’s wrists, while the Moor, as if actually paralyzed, made no resistance, and only muttered—
“Is this an illusion of magic, or art thou more than mortal?”
“What mean’st thou, brave Moor?” asked the wondering knight, while his men (who had closed up to prevent the emir’s escape) looked on in silent amazement.
“HE STARED AT HIS FOE’S REVEALED FACE”
“When I left Grenada one moon ago, a Christian slave was at our king’s court whom he prized so highly, that he would not even let him go beyond the Alhambra’s gates, lest he should escape; yet now standeth he before me in thy likeness—for, as truly as the sun shineth above us, thy face and form, yea, thy very voice, are his!”