“The same, O Caliph. Grandson of King Chindavinto, his father, murdered by that unclean beast Witica, predecessor of Roderich. Pelayo ends the line of Gothic princes. Kerim despises him as a despicable barbarian shut up on a mountain, where his followers die of hunger; they have no food but herbs and honey gathered in the rocks. Let not my Lord regard him.”
“Call you this good news, O Mahoun? A hero is ever a hero, even in rags! Though he is my enemy, I respect his valour. Had Roderich fought with like courage in the defence of Spain, we might now be eating dates in our tents under our native palms. The courage of the chief represents the spirit of the nation, as the flash of the lightning precedes the thunderbolt. One cannot scathe without the other.”
“But, O Caliph of the Faithful,” interrupts the vizier, again prostrating himself to the ground, “the good news is yet untold. Pelayo’s sister, Onesinda, is now in our hands,—Kerim, the Governor of Gijon, has captured her.”
A smile of satisfaction overspread the Caliph’s face. Then, as other thoughts seemed to gather in his mind, he raised his hand and thoughtfully passed it across the thick black curls of his beard.
“Surely all courtesy has been used towards this royal lady? I would rather that Kerim had shown his skill in overcoming men. Do Mussulmen wage war on women and children? I know Kerim as a valiant leader in the fight, but I misdoubt much his courtesy towards this daughter of the Goths. Are we not well-founded enough in Spain to spare this lady?”
“Yes, confined within the strong walls of your harem. Make her your sultana, O Caliph, she will be free, and, subdued by the wisdom of your lips, will bring her countrymen with her; otherwise she is too important a hostage to surrender. For his sister’s sake Pelayo himself may yield.”
“Never, if I know him,” exclaims Abdurraman, “while the fountain of life flows within his veins—never! Dishonour not the noble Goth so far. To turn a Christian maiden into a slave would be honour, for a Gothic princess a sore degradation. Mahoun, I want no sultana to share my throne. ‘Beware of the wiles of women,’ saith the sage. By the help of the Prophet, I will still steer clear. But that this noble lady shall have cause to extol the courtesy of the Moslem is my command.”
“How then shall we deal with her?” asks the vizier with anxious haste, too well aware of the generous nature of the Caliph. “If Pelayo lays down his arms, the Infanta might be escorted back in safety to the rocks and caverns he makes his home, but if he still raises the standard of revolt, a bow-string would better suit the lady’s throat.”
“Silence, slave,” replies Abdurraman in a deep voice. “Great Allah! Shall we degrade ourselves to make success depend on the life of a woman? Summon her here at once. When she arrives in Cordoba, let her immediately be conducted to my harem. Let orders be given for her immediate departure from Gijon with suitable attendants.”
“Oh, justest of men and greatest of rulers,” answers the vizier, “permit your slave yet to speak one word. These infidels must be reached through their women. Leave, I pray you, Onesinda to the Governor of Gijon, and she will be bait to catch her brother Pelayo.”