“Forever? how long is forever, mother mine?” she asked.
But the Donna Beatrix was just then too deeply interested in the tragic story of the two lovers, Calixto and Melibea, in the Senor Fernando de Rojas’ tear-compelling story, to be able to enter into the discussion of so deep a question.
“Forever,” she said, looking up from the thick and crabbed black-letter pages, “why forever is forever, child—always. Pray do not trouble me with such questions; just as I am in the midst of this beautiful death-scene too.”
The little girl found she could gain no knowledge from this source, and she feared to question her stern and bigoted old father. So she sought her favorite brother Pedro—a bright little fellow of seven, who adored and thoroughly believed in his sister Theresa.
To Pedro, then, Theresa confided her belief that, if forever was so long a time as “always,” it would be most unpleasant to suffer “always,” if by any chance they should do any thing wrong. It would be far better, so argued this little logician, to die now and end the problem, than to live and run so great a risk. She told him, too, that, as they knew from their mother’s tales, the most beautiful, the most glorious way to die was as a martyr among the infidel Moors. So she proposed to Pedro that she and he should not say a word to any one, but just start off at once as crusaders on their own accounts, and lose their lives but save their souls as martyrs among the Moors.
The suggestion had all the effect of novelty to the little Pedro, and while he did not altogether relish the idea of losing his life among the Moors, still the possibility of a change presented itself with all the attractions that the thought of trying something new always has for children. Besides, he had great respect for his sister’s judgment.
“Well, let us be crusaders,” he said, “and perhaps we need not be martyrs, sister. I don’t think that would be so very pleasant, do you? Who knows; perhaps we may be victorious crusaders and conquer the Infidels just as did Ruy Diaz the Cid.(1) See here, Theresa; I have my sword and you can take your cross, and we can have such a nice crusade, and may be the infidel Moors will run away from us just as they did from the Cid and leave us their cities and their gold and treasure? Don’t you remember what mother read us, how the Cid won Castelon, with its silver and its gold?”
(1) The Cid was the great hero of Spanish romance. The stories of his valor have been the joy of Spaniards, old and young, for centuries. Cid is a corruption of the Moorish word seyd or said, and means master.
And the little fellow spouted most valiantly this portion of the famous poem of the exploits of the Cid (the Poema del Cid), with the martial spirit of which stirring rhyme his romantic mother had filled her children:
“Smite, smite, my knights, for mercy’s sake—on boldly to the
war;
I am Ruy Diaz of Bivar, the Cid Campeador!
Three hundred lances then were couched, with pennons
streaming gay;
Three hundred shields were pierced through—no steel the
shock might stay;—
Three hundred hauberks were torn off in that encounter sore;
Three hundred snow-white pennons were crimson-dyed in
gore;
Three hundred chargers wandered loose—their lords were
overthrown;
The Christians cry ‘St. James for Spain!’ the Moormen
cry ‘Mahoun!’”