“Rodrigo,” he whispers, and with an unutterable expression of despair he looks into his eyes, “are you brave?”
“Sir!” answers Rodrigo, drawing back his arm, “any other but you should feel it on the instant.”
“Oh, blessed anger!” replies Don Diego, watching the deep flush mounting on his face, “you are indeed my son. My blood flows in your veins. I was like that once. Prompt, ready, dexterous. Rodrigo, will you avenge me?”
“For what?” asks Rodrigo, more and more perplexed.
“For that,” returns Don Diego—and as he speaks his voice gathers strength and he draws himself back, and stands upright before him—“which touches your honour as nearly as my own. A blow, a cruel blow! Had I been of your age, his blood would have wiped it out. But it is not with swords such an outrage is avenged. Go—die—or slay him. But I warn you, he is a hero. I have seen him in the front of a hundred battles, making a rampart of his body against the foe. He is——”
“Tell me, father, tell me!” exclaims Don Rodrigo, breathlessly following his father’s words.
“The father of Ximena.”
“The——”
No sound came to his white lips. As if struck by a mortal blow, Rodrigo staggered back against the sculptured pilasters of the Ayuntamiento.
“Speak not, my son,” says Don Diego, laying his hand upon him. “I know how much you love her. But he who accepts infamy is unworthy to live. I have told you vengeance is in your hand, for me, for you. Be worthy of your father, who was once a valiant knight. Go, I say,—rush—fly,—as though the earth burned under your footsteps! Nor let me behold you until you have washed out the stain!”