He was a rather imposing-looking but not a formidable old man. His cloak or mantle of brown stuff was worn and ragged, his turban was quite as dingy, but the long white beard that fell upon his breast made his swarthy face look even fiercer than it really was, and the stout staff, with which he helped himself over the uneven road, seemed to the little crusaders some terrible weapon of torture and of martyrdom. But Pedro was a valiant little fellow after all. The fighting spirit of his father the Don burned within him, and few little folks of seven know what caution is. He whispered to his sister, whose hand he had at first clutched in terror, a word of assurance. “Be not afraid, sister mine,” he said. “Yonder comes the Infidel we have gone forth to find. Do you suppose he has a whole great army following him? Hold up your crucifix, and I will strike him with my sword. The castle can’t be far away, and perhaps we can conquer this old Infidel and find a good dinner in his castle. That ‘s just what the Cid would have done. You know what he said: “‘Far from our land, far from Castile We here are banished; If with the Moors we battle not, I wot we get no bread.’ Let us battle with him at once.” And before his sister with restraining hand, could hold him back the plucky young crusader flourished his sword furiously and charged down upon the old Moor, who now in turn started in surprise and drew aside from the path of the determined little warrior. “Now yield thee, yield thee, pagan prince. Or die in crimson gore; I am Ruy Diaz of Bivar, The Cid Campeador!” shouted the little crusader, charging against his pagan enemy at a furious rate. “O spare him, spare my brother, noble emir. Let me die in his stead,” cried the terrified Theresa, not quite so confident now as to the pleasure of martyrdom. The old man stretched out his staff and stopped the headlong dash of the boy. Then laying a hand lightly on his assailant’s head he looked smilingly toward Theresa. “Neither prince nor emir am I, Christian maiden,” he said, “but the poor Morisco Abd-el-’Aman of Cordova, seeking my son Ali, who, men say, is servant to a family in Valladolid. Pray you if you have aught to eat give some to me, for I am famishing.” This was not exactly martyrdom; it was, in fact, quite the opposite, and the little Theresa was puzzled as to her duty in the matter. Pedro, however, was not at all undecided. “Give our bread and cake to a nasty old Moor?” he cried; “I should say we will not, will we, sister? We need it for ourselves. Besides, what dreadful thing is it that the Holy Inquisition does to people who succor the infidel Moors?”