“Yes, they will divide your kingdom, and then march against Almanzor. Fernan, you have no friend but me!” “Now may the foul fiend seize them on the way!” cries the Conde. “Oh! that I had a sword to fight! Castile and Burgos in their hands! The dastards! And I am bound here like a slave!” “But I am come to free you!” replies the Infanta, with such courage in her voice that already the fresh air of freedom seems to fan his cheek, as with deft hands she loosens his fetters. “The door is open, before you lies the way.” “And you, dear Ava,” clasping her willing hand “are we to part thus?” At this question she hung her head, and a great blush mounted to her cheeks. “Ah, my lord,” she whispered, and the little dimple came back again, forming near her lip, “I fain would fly with you. For this I came, never to part again.” “Then,” says the ballad, “he solemnly saluted the Infanta as his bride on brow and lip, and hand in hand they went forth together into the night.” * * * * * Had there been court painters in those days, they might fitly have depicted the Conde, flushed with hope, the Infanta at his side, feminine and sweet, as one of those blonde images adored on altars pale amid the perfume of incense, caracoling through the greenwood on their way to Burgos. The geography of the Conde’s progress is rather loose, but we will figure to ourselves a forest glade of wide-branching oaks, which had perhaps sheltered the advance of the Roman legions from Gaul. Athwart rambles a rocky stream, a gentle eminence lies in front, crowned by a group of olives. As they address themselves to the ascent, the figure of a priest appears, mounted on a mule, equipped in a strange fashion, a mixture of cassock and huntsman, a bugle round his neck and a hawk upon his wrist. “Now stop you. Stop you,” he shouts, placing himself full across the way; “Castila knows you both, fair Infanta, and you, Lord of Castila. I have seen you at the castle. What unlawful game are you after? Dismount, Sir Conde, and give account to me, the purveyor of these forests for the king.” And the bold priest presses his mule close up to them. “By the rood! Conde or no Conde, I will dismount to please no man,” answers he. “Nor shall the Infanta, as you say you know her. Remove yourself, I pray, Sir Priest, from our way, or your tonsure shall not save you from a whipping.” “That is at my pleasure,” is the reply. “But as the Infanta seems to have yielded willingly to your blandishments, Conde de Castila, I stay you not if you pay me a fitting ransom.” “A ransom!” quoth he, “that is a most singular demand from a consecrated priest, who ought to be saying his prayers, instead of hawking in the greenwood. No ransom will I pay.” “Then I will teach you a lesson,” and the vagrant churchman raises his bugle to his lips. “A note from my little instrument and you will soon lie again in chains.”