But the combat was too unequal. It lasted but a few minutes. The Conde de Gormez was the first espadero in Castile, in the flower of his age, graceful, skilful, strong; Don Diego was old and weak. His blows fell like water on his stalwart adversary, who treated him as one does a wayward child.
“Mark you,” he said at last, throwing up Don Diego’s sword, “I spare your life. Go home, you dotard, and teach your son to hold his tongue before his betters and learn to be a wiser man.”
With that he sheathed his formidable weapon, turned his back, and with a quick step disappeared.
CHAPTER XXVIII
Don Rodrigo (the Cid) Kills the Conde de Gormez
T was the hottest hour of the day, when the citizens took their siesta; the sun poured down in splendour on the white walls, absorbing the shade; the river was dried up.
No one had witnessed the encounter. But what did that matter? Conde Gormez would be sure to publish it abroad. Oh, shame and grief! Don Diego was for ever dishonoured!
Just as, with wavering steps, he was addressing himself to seek his horse where he had left him, he heard the clank of spurs upon the pavement, and his son Rodrigo appeared.
“Well met!” cried he, clutching his arm and gazing up wistfully into his beaming face; “the saints have sent you.”
“May their blessing be ever on you, my honoured father,” is the reply, as he stops to kiss his hand. “I was hastening home to tell you that the marriage is fixed, and that the king, Don Fernando, gives away the bride. But, father, are you ill?” noting his blanched aspect as his father leaned heavily upon him.