Another and another and another, and twenty more, went forth to fight and suffered the same fate. Whoever resisted the mysterious action of the shield, fell dead from a blow of the sword, even when only touched with the flat of it.
The people gave shouts of despair on account of the horror which that man inspired in them. The princess was on the point of losing consciousness from terror on seeing that terrible spouse who was offering her his disgrace.
"Heaven!" she exclaimed, "death before being the wife of that wicked man."
And now, the last champion having suffered the same defeat as the others, they were about to proclaim Don Teobaldo conqueror, and therefore the husband of the princess, when the trumpet sounded, announcing that a noble knight asked permission to take part in the struggle.
The king looked at his daughter and, on seeing her so sorrow-stricken, gave the desired permission, with the remote hope that the new-comer, whoever he might be, would vanquish the terrible champion.
They requested him to tell his name and surname, but the knight said:
"My name is Miguel; my surname I reserve until after the fight, if I emerge victorious, but rest assured that there is no one more noble on earth."
And he rode into the lists, arousing a murmur of admiration; his armour was all white as ermine, and the plumes of his helmet were also white.
White, of a dazzling white, was the beautiful horse he rode.
Don Teobaldo was greatly impressed by the sight, and more so the devil, who with a neigh said: "I am glad you have come to fight, Miguel; we have an old account to settle."