“Where else could you give it better? You are not already married, I presume, from a weariness in your mind at having so many who would claim the title.” “It would not become me to say so,” put in Fernan, a genuine blush rising on his cheek. “This alliance would certainly knit the Christians together,” urges the king, now speaking with a certain vehemence, “at a moment of great danger to us all. Almanzor is a leader of renown, backed by great riches.” “Why not see the Infanta for yourself?” asks the queen. “Start from here on this joyous pilgrimage of love.” Again that strange look came into her eyes, as she fixed them on Fernan, and again the fat king showed his contentment by a hidden glance. “To see the lady would indeed be my desire,” the Conde answers, all the same somewhat staggered by this insistence for his advantage in those he had good cause to know bore him no goodwill. He had hitherto little considered the subject of marriage. Still it was true; the alliance was for the good of all. “The idea pleases me,” he says at last--(perhaps these enemies had come to a better mind). “Thank you, Doña the Queen, and my good kinsman, Don Sancho. This occasion also assures me of your friendship, which I have sometimes had in doubt.” Here deprecatory looks passed between the king and his mother, as under protest at such an assertion. “Indeed, at Leon, I am half-way on the road. I will go.” * * * * * Gaily Fernan set forth on his journey over the mountains to the Court of Navarre. Not followed, as he came to Leon, with a warlike train, but with gorgeously arrayed chamberlains, esquires, and pages, covered with silk and embroidery, and showy heralds with nodding plumes flying the pennon of Castile, all mounted on horses with fine and slender limbs, accoutred with saddle-cloths, and trappings as richly decorated as their riders. He himself, as Doña Teresa truly said, “was formed by Nature to please a lady’s eye,” graceful, athletic, with light-brown hair curling on his neck and a short beard worn in the fashion of the day, partly concealing his regular features, expressive of a singular sweetness; with a voice, too, although well tuned to the tone of command, capable of modulating into the gentlest tones of love. Thus he rode over the plains of Northern Spain and through the gorges of the mountains, up the rocky defiles where Roland’s blood was shed, to the ancient Roman city of Narbonne, standing on a rock over the sea, time-worn and rugged in aspect, as having borne many a siege, for the small kingdom of Navarre was ever industrious in war. Don Garcia, the king, feigned great joy at the Conde’s arrival. His royal kinsfolk at Leon had put him on the track, but the redoubtable courage of the Conde called for great caution. And the Infanta, Doña Ava? From the first moment his heart was won.