Just as, with wavering steps, he was addressing himself to seek his horse where he had left him, he heard the clank of spurs upon the pavement, and his son Rodrigo appeared. “Well met!” cried he, clutching his arm and gazing up wistfully into his beaming face; “the saints have sent you.” “May their blessing be ever on you, my honoured father,” is the reply, as he stops to kiss his hand. “I was hastening home to tell you that the marriage is fixed, and that the king, Don Fernando, gives away the bride. But, father, are you ill?” noting his blanched aspect as his father leaned heavily upon him. “Rodrigo,” he whispers, and with an unutterable expression of despair he looks into his eyes, “are you brave?” “Sir!” answers Rodrigo, drawing back his arm, “any other but you should feel it on the instant.” “Oh, blessed anger!” replies Don Diego, watching the deep flush mounting on his face, “you are indeed my son. My blood flows in your veins. I was like that once. Prompt, ready, dexterous. Rodrigo, will you avenge me?” “For what?” asks Rodrigo, more and more perplexed. “For that,” returns Don Diego--and as he speaks his voice gathers strength and he draws himself back, and stands upright before him--“which touches your honour as nearly as my own. A blow, a cruel blow! Had I been of your age, his blood would have wiped it out. But it is not with swords such an outrage is avenged. Go--die--or slay him. But I warn you, he is a hero. I have seen him in the front of a hundred battles, making a rampart of his body against the foe. He is----” “Tell me, father, tell me!” exclaims Don Rodrigo, breathlessly following his father’s words. “The father of Ximena.” “The----” No sound came to his white lips. As if struck by a mortal blow, Rodrigo staggered back against the sculptured pilasters of the Ayuntamiento. “Speak not, my son,” says Don Diego, laying his hand upon him. “I know how much you love her. But he who accepts infamy is unworthy to live. I have told you vengeance is in your hand, for me, for you. Be worthy of your father, who was once a valiant knight. Go, I say,--rush--fly,--as though the earth burned under your footsteps! Nor let me behold you until you have washed out the stain!” * * * * * The chronicles say that, insolent as he was, the Conde de Gormez had already repented of his furious act. Certain of the wrath of the king, who greatly esteemed Don Diego Laynez, and shrinking from the reproaches of his daughter, he was preparing to leave the city when he came upon the Cid. They met beside the banks of the Arlanzon, which still presents the sandy emptiness of an ill-fed river, under a screen of plane-trees whispering to the summer wind, the space without thronged with hidalgos and cheerful citizens in ample cloaks and _capas_ muffled up to the eyes, spite of the heat, in true Castilian fashion. As Don Rodrigo, with lofty stride, approached, the Conde stood still, guessing his errand.