“Amen,” answered Don Alfonso heartily, for he loved his sister. Don Garcia, the youngest, repeated the same; only Don Sancho moved his lips, but no word came.
Zamora la ben cercada, a Moorish fortress as the name indicates, lately conquered by Fernando, stands on the river Duero, which flows away to the west through a beautifully wooded valley, in the kingdom of Leon, between Valladolid and Medina. It was then surrounded by seven lines of walls, with deep moats between. From the bridge by the city walls is still to be seen the ruins of the palace of Doña Urraca, with her likeness, a mutilated head in a niche over the gateway, and the inscription, Afuera Afuera Rodrigo el soberbio Castellano.
Within her council chamber sits the Infanta, the white coif of a queen under a Gothic crown on her auburn head and long robes of black about her stately form. She is accustomed to the calm majesty of state, but her blue eyes shine with wonderful lustre, and, spite of herself, her fingers move nervously on the rich carving of her chair. The Cid Campeador is coming, sent by her brother Don Sancho, who is encamped outside, and has ridden three times round the walls to study the defences, attended by his knights.
For no sooner was the breath out of his father’s body than he attacked his brothers, and now he is come to take Zamora.
With Doña Urraca in the council chamber are Don Pero Anonras, Don Vellido, and Dolfos, a knight of no good fame, but devoted to her service.
The Cid enters in full armour, a green feather in his casque. His face has lost the sweetness of youth, and is hard and thin, the nose arched and prominent in advanced life, and his eyes of such searching fierceness that he terrifies his enemies before he draws his sword.
Not now; for as the Infanta hastens to the door to greet him, and he sinks on one knee to kiss her dimpled hand, his face melts into the most winning softness, and he smiles on her as she leads him to the estrade, enclosed by golden banisters, within which her chair of state is placed.
“Now, Cid,” says Doña Urraca, when they have seated themselves, “what is my brother about to do? All Spain is in arms. Is it against the Moors or the Christians?”
“Lady,” he answers—and the tone of his voice is wonderfully subdued—“the king your brother sends to greet you by me. He beseeches you to give up to him the fortress of Zamora; he will in return swear never to do you harm.”
“And you, Don Ruy Diaz de Bivar, bring me such a message!” she exclaims, half rising from her chair, a great reproach coming into her blue eyes; “you, who have been brought up with me in this very city of Zamora, which my father conquered!”