At these base words the rising terror of Florinda gave place to indignation. Her soft eyes kindled with a fire far different from that which Don Roderich would have desired.
“I understand, my lord,” she answers, in a firm voice; “but none of my race hold power by evil means. My father would rather die than accept such dishonour. But,” and an ill-assured smile plays about her mouth, “I believe you mean but to try me; you think me too stupid and childish to serve the queen. I pray your pardon for taking a jest in such foolish earnest.”
The blanched face of Florinda ill-corresponded with the words which her quivering lips could scarcely articulate.
“May I die,” cries Don Roderich, “if I speak aught but truth. My heart, my kingdom, are at your command. Be mine, fair angel, and the Goths shall know no rule but yours.”
But now, the courage of Florinda, timid and girlish as she was, rises up within her. “My lord, I am in your power,” are her words. “You may kill me, but there you stop. My will you can never force.” Then, casting up her arms with a gesture of despair, she flees, vanishing among the long lines of pillars in the hall; and such was the power of her anger that the king dares not follow her. And here we must leave her with a wonder whether the assiduous worship paid her by Roderich was always repulsed with a like vigour, or if the opprobrious name of La Cava with which she came to be branded in the legends of the time was not undeserved.
That the king was so depraved by the indulgence of his life as not to be haunted by the shame of what he had done is difficult to believe. That he counted, however, on the secrecy of Florinda would seem certain from the indifference he displayed to the consequences of his action as affecting his relations with Julian, at that very time leading his army against the Moorish hosts, commanded by the veteran general, Mousa, in the neighbourhood of Ceuta.
“Those whom the gods forsake, they blind,” says the Pagan proverb. It is certainly impossible to explain the inactivity of the once valiant Roderich by any rational course of reasoning. Not only had the rumour of approaching battle come from the African shores, but swift messengers had brought to Toledo the news that the rock of Calpe (Gibraltar) in Spain bristled with scimitars, led by the ferocious old Berber, Tháryk, with his single eye.
“Tell Roderich the Goth,” ran the message, “that Tháryk has crossed the Straits to conquer his kingdom, and that he will not return until he has made the Goth lick the dust before him.”
Whatever blindness had fallen on Roderich, the consciousness of her disgrace soon forced itself on the mind of Florinda. Guilty or not, despair at last took possession of her. For a time she was silent, but unable to endure her shame, and horrified at her treason towards the queen, who ever tenderly cherished her, in a paroxysm of remorseful grief she caught up a pen and wrote to Julian:
“Would to God, my father, that the earth had swallowed me ere I came to Toledo! What am I to tell you of that which it is meet to conceal? Alas! my father, your lamb has been entrusted to the wolf. She were better dead than dishonoured. Hasten to rescue your unhappy Florinda. Come quickly.”