The chronicles say that, insolent as he was, the Conde de Gormez had already repented of his furious act. Certain of the wrath of the king, who greatly esteemed Don Diego Laynez, and shrinking from the reproaches of his daughter, he was preparing to leave the city when he came upon the Cid.
They met beside the banks of the Arlanzon, which still presents the sandy emptiness of an ill-fed river, under a screen of plane-trees whispering to the summer wind, the space without thronged with hidalgos and cheerful citizens in ample cloaks and capas muffled up to the eyes, spite of the heat, in true Castilian fashion.
As Don Rodrigo, with lofty stride, approached, the Conde stood still, guessing his errand.
Of all the knights of Castile, Don Gormez was a palm higher than the rest. A dark defiant head was firmly set on massive shoulders, youthful in aspect for his period of middle age, an approved and complete warrior at all points, and full to the brim, as one may say, of the chivalric traditions of the time.
Rodrigo beside him looked a slender youth; the down was on his cheek, the lustre of boyhood in his eyes, now dilated with fury as he drew near.
“Sir Conde,” he says shortly, as he doffs his cap, to which the other responds with a haughty smile, “I ask two words of you.”
“Speak!” is the Conde’s answer, twirling his moustache.
“Tell me, do you know Don Diego, my father?”
“Yes,” in a loud tone. “Why ask?”
“Speak lower. Listen. Do you know that in his time he was the honour of the land, brave as yourself? You know it?”