“If thou wilt not,” said Sancho, “Elvira shall be declared innocent, and her accusers traitors.”
“Let her champion appear, then,” replied Garcia. “What my tongue asserts, my sword shall ever prove. There lies my guage,” and he threw his glove into the centre of the floor.
But in all that crowded assembly there was not one who came forward to take up the guage of Garcia. They all pitied the queen, and believed her innocent, but the dread of the future tyrant was too powerful a motive to keep them, so far at least, on his side.
“At the end of three days,” said the king, “if no champion appear for the queen, she shall perish by the flames, and with her, her alleged paramour.”
The lists were prepared, and at the noon of the second day a knight in bright silver armour, whose name was unknown, appeared in the queen’s defence. His vizor was drawn over his face, and his device gave no clue to the curious. The whole court was assembled to witness the combat, and Elvira occupied a seat nearest to the side at which her champion appeared. The signal was given, and the contest commenced. It was soon decided. The unknown knight quickly unhorsed his antagonist, and after a brief struggle with the sword, Garcia fell to the earth desperately wounded.
“Confess the innocence of the queen,” said the unknown knight, in a voice which struck Garcia to the soul, “or thou diest on the spot.”
“She is innocent!” feebly articulated Garcia, as he writhed in the agony of his wounds.
Taking up the sword of his vanquished adversary, the unknown cavalier brought it to the feet of Elvira, and then, gracefully bending on one knee, he lifted the vizor from his casque, and for the first time the queen knew that she had been indebted for life and the preservation of her fair fame to the son of the king by her Moorish rival.
“Madam,” said Ramiro, “not to me alone, but to Caya thy friend, thy thanks are due. Thou hast been a sister to her—let me be a son to thee.”
Elvira could only weep her thanks.