Nor could Teodomir stay the flight. Seeing that all was lost, and his sons dead, he seized the bridle of a horse ridden for him by a little page, who tended him in his tent, and who like the rest was spurring onward in full flight.
“Tarry a moment, my son,” says Teodomir, grasping the bridle with an iron grip. “Mount behind and part not from me, for I will save thy life!”
So digging his huge spurs into his horse’s flanks, at which the well-trained animal, used to his practised touch, reared indignantly on its hind legs and pawed the air, then started off in a wild gallop, swift as the rushing wind. Nor did they pause until, mounting the steep zig-zag path, they were both safe within the fortress of Orihuela.
There it still stands, a castle of defence, crowned by dark bulwarks on a mountain chain, an outlook for scores of miles over a flat country towards Granada and the sea. Round and round the base winds the road from Alicante, through overhanging lanes, under palm-trees and embowering citron woods, broken by red earthed barrancas. The town itself (Auri-welah) is still very Eastern, with domed church and castellated towers, the whole district with great tidal rivers cutting through, fertile beyond words.
As the day fell, and the sun went down in lemon-coloured clouds, Abdul-asis approached, thinking to find an easy conquest. But to his amazement the walls appeared fully garrisoned, and from the keep a proud flag floated, bearing the colours of the Goths.
“How is this?” said the son of Mousa. “Is it a necromancy? Or have these men risen from the
