We cannot tell how the poem began in its complete state. Some scholars think that what is missing was merely a short unimportant prelude; others believe that the _Poema del Cid_, as we have it, is but the ending of a vast epic. It must have been vast indeed, for the fragment that survives amounts to 3735 lines; the _Chanson de Roland_ consists of 4001 lines, and it seems improbable that the _Poema_ was much longer. At any rate, it is difficult to imagine a more spirited opening than that which chance has given us. The Cid is introduced at a critical moment, misjudged, calumniated, a loyal subject driven from his own Castilian home by an ungrateful Leonese king. There is something spacious in the atmosphere, there is a stately simplicity even in the deliberate repetition of conventional epithet—‘the Castilian,’ ‘he who was born in a good hour,’ ‘the good one of Bivar,’ ‘my Cid,’ and rarely—very rarely—‘the Cid.’ The poet lauds his hero, as he should, but does not degrade him by fulsome eulogy; he is in touch with realities. He seems to feel that the Cid is great enough to afford to have the truth told about him; with engaging simplicity the _Poema_ relates how the crafty chief imposed on the two Jews, Raquel and Vidas, by depositing with them two chests purporting to be full of gold (but really containing sand), and how he fraudulently borrowed six hundred marks on this worthless security. In the _Crónica general_, a passage founded on a re-cast of the _Poema_ represents the Cid as refunding the money, and in the _Romancero general_ of 1602 an anonymous ballad-writer excused the trickery on the plea that the chests contained the gold of the Cid’s truth:— No habeis fiado vuestro dinero por prendas, mas solo del Cid honrado, que dentro de aquestos cofres os dejó depositado el oro de su verdad, que es tesoro no preciado. But there is neither casuistry nor other-worldliness in the primitive poet. He clearly looks upon the incident as a normal business transaction, describes the Cid as postponing payment when the Jews put in their claim, and sees no inconsistency between this passage and an earlier one which vouches for the Cid’s fine sense of honour. We read that the Count of Barcelona, on his release, spurred his steed; but, as he rode, a backward glance he bent Still fearing to the last my Cid his promise would repent: A thing, the world itself to win, my Cid would not have done; No perfidy was ever found in him, the Perfect One.