Doña Ava Outwits Don Sancho and Releases her Husband Time passed and a new element made itself felt in the struggle between the Christians and the Moors. The powerful tribe of the Berbers had fastened like leeches on the Gothic lands of the north, and Almanzor, by his constant attacks in the south, had paralysed the kings of Leon and Navarre into mere tributaries. But selfish and disloyal as they were, Doña Teresa and the kings of Leon and Navarre never lost sight of their determination to possess Castile, and instead of joining heartily against a common enemy they each summoned every lord and vassal they possessed to appear in arms to march against Burgos. Don Sancho at least understood his real position, and would willingly have accepted the large ransom offered by the Infanta for her lord, but his mother was not to be persuaded. His dark-browed uncle of Navarre, too, was as violent and as short-sighted as she, so that Don Sancho could only offer up fervent prayers to Santiago, the patron of Spain, whose shrine at Compostela had, to his everlasting shame, been so ill-defended. Would the celestial knight again appear on his milk-white charger clad in radiant mail and ensure a victory as when King Ramiro, his predecessor, refused to pay “the Maiden Tribute” exacted by the Caliph? Would he come? And never did sovereign put up more fervent _Ora pro nobis Sancta Maria_ than the fat king, and invocations to all the calendar of saints. * * * * * In the midst of his devotions a scratch is heard at the door, the curtain is drawn aside, and the head of a jefe appears. At an impatient motion of the king, indicating that he would not be disturbed, the jefe bows low. “Good, my lord,” are his words, “what am I to do? Here is a pious pilgrim bound for Compostela, earnestly desiring to see your Grace.” “For Compostela,” answers the king. “Ah! he is welcome, admit him at once. He can tell me, on his return, in what precise condition the sanctuary is left. That last raid of the Moors lies heavy on my soul.” In a few moments the pilgrim stands before him, his face concealed by a close-fitting cap, heavily charged with drapery, which he wears on his head. “In what matter,” asks Don Sancho, with a gracious smile, “can the King of Leon advantage you, good pilgrim? If it is within my power, command me.” “My lord,” answers the pilgrim, in tones which fell caressingly on the ear, “I humbly thank your Grace. I am bound for Compostela, to fulfil a vow concerning your prisoner, the Conde de Castila.” “The Conde de Castila!” exclaims the king, half starting from his chair. “He is clean forgotten. As well talk of a dead man.” “I crave your pardon if I have said aught amiss, but the Conde has caused deep sorrow to me. In my wrath I invoked a curse upon him, in the name of the blessed saint, and now I am bound to render thanks for his death.” “Death!” ejaculates Don Sancho, turning pale, “who talks of his death?”