Of all the knights of Castile, Don Gormez was a palm higher than the rest. A dark defiant head was firmly set on massive shoulders, youthful in aspect for his period of middle age, an approved and complete warrior at all points, and full to the brim, as one may say, of the chivalric traditions of the time. Rodrigo beside him looked a slender youth; the down was on his cheek, the lustre of boyhood in his eyes, now dilated with fury as he drew near. “Sir Conde,” he says shortly, as he doffs his cap, to which the other responds with a haughty smile, “I ask two words of you.” “Speak!” is the Conde’s answer, twirling his moustache. “Tell me, do you know Don Diego, my father?” “Yes,” in a loud tone. “Why ask?” “Speak lower. Listen. Do you know that in his time he was the honour of the land, brave as yourself? You know it?” Nearer and nearer Rodrigo came as he spoke, until their faces almost touched. “I care not,” is the answer, with a sneer. “Stand back in the shade of that thicket and I will teach you,” roars the Cid, his rage bursting in all bounds. “Presumptuous boy!” exclaims the Conde with ineffable scorn; yet, spite of his affected contempt, the words have stung him, and he turns crimson. “I am young, it is true,” answers Rodrigo, “but once so were you. Valour goes not by the number of our years.” “You--_you_ dare to measure yourself with me!” cries he, losing all control in the climax of his rage. “I do. I well know your prowess. You have always prevailed, but to him who fights for his father nothing is impossible. Come on, Sir Conde,” drawing his sword. “Seek not so vainly to end your days,” answers Gormez, laying his hand on the hilt of his weapon. “Your death will be no credit to my sword.” “Mock me not by this insulting pity,” answers Rodrigo, “or by God I shall think it is _you_ who are tired of living, not I.” And as he speaks he strikes the Conde de Gormez with the flat of his sword. The attack, on both sides is furious. Rodrigo grows cold with the thirst of vengeance; the Conde burns to cut off a life which rivals with his own. But the sure aim of Rodrigo and his strength prevail. With one stroke of his good sword Tizona, he fells Gormez to the earth and plunges his weapon straight into his heart. Red with his life-blood he draws it out to bear it as a trophy to his father.