Nearer and nearer Rodrigo came as he spoke, until their faces almost touched.
“I care not,” is the answer, with a sneer.
“Stand back in the shade of that thicket and I will teach you,” roars the Cid, his rage bursting in all bounds.
“Presumptuous boy!” exclaims the Conde with ineffable scorn; yet, spite of his affected contempt, the words have stung him, and he turns crimson.
“I am young, it is true,” answers Rodrigo, “but once so were you. Valour goes not by the number of our years.”
“You—you dare to measure yourself with me!” cries he, losing all control in the climax of his rage.
“I do. I well know your prowess. You have always prevailed, but to him who fights for his father nothing is impossible. Come on, Sir Conde,” drawing his sword.
“Seek not so vainly to end your days,” answers Gormez, laying his hand on the hilt of his weapon. “Your death will be no credit to my sword.”
“Mock me not by this insulting pity,” answers Rodrigo, “or by God I shall think it is you who are tired of living, not I.” And as he speaks he strikes the Conde de Gormez with the flat of his sword.
The attack, on both sides is furious. Rodrigo grows cold with the thirst of vengeance; the Conde burns to cut off a life which rivals with his own.