“I think the matter ill-considered,” is the reply; “but of course you approve it, Don Diego Laynez. The king is old and foolish, and loves age and infirmity about him. No one exceeds you now in arrogance, since your young son Rodrigo sits by you at the council. He is reported of good courage against the Moors, but his youth makes him incompetent to advise the king.” “Conde Gormez,” answers the other, reddening with anger, “your indiscreet words prove that it is not age or experience which gives judgment.” “What do you mean, Don Diego?” asks the [Illustration: THE GIRALDA. SEVILLE.] Conde fiercely. “I allow no observations on my conduct.” “I do not condescend to fathom it,” is the answer, with a contemptuous glance. “Jealousy and thirst for power----” “Take that, old fool,” cried the Conde, silencing him with a sounding blow on the cheek, which made him reel backwards against the wall. He could not speak, all his passion had vanished in the humiliation of being struck. White and tottering he stood, while his trembling hand sought the hilt of his sword. “Mother of God!” he said at last, “you had better have finished me altogether than put this insult on me. Is it that you deem my arm so weak you mock me, Sir Count?” And as he spoke, with difficulty he drew his sword. “Perhaps it is,” replies the other with an insolent laugh. “Put up your weapon, old man, or worse may come to you.” “No, no,” returns Don Diego, the colour mounting to his cheek as his fingers feel the temper of the blade; “as knight to knight, who have so often stood side by side in battle, I demand a fair fight and no quarter.” “As you will,” he answers, and an evil fire comes into his eyes. “It is a favour which, at your age, you have no right to demand. If you desire to be spitted, I will oblige you all the same.” And then and there he drew his rapier, and placed himself in a posture of defence. But the combat was too unequal. It lasted but a few minutes. The Conde de Gormez was the first _espadero_ in Castile, in the flower of his age, graceful, skilful, strong; Don Diego was old and weak. His blows fell like water on his stalwart adversary, who treated him as one does a wayward child. “Mark you,” he said at last, throwing up Don Diego’s sword, “I spare your life. Go home, you dotard, and teach your son to hold his tongue before his betters and learn to be a wiser man.” With that he sheathed his formidable weapon, turned his back, and with a quick step disappeared. CHAPTER XXVIII Don Rodrigo (the Cid) Kills the Conde de Gormez It was the hottest hour of the day, when the citizens took their _siesta_; the sun poured down in splendour on the white walls, absorbing the shade; the river was dried up. No one had witnessed the encounter. But what did that matter? Conde Gormez would be sure to publish it abroad. Oh, shame and grief! Don Diego was for ever dishonoured!