Within the great hall of the castle the marriage feast is held. The whole city is hung with garlands and tapestry, banners, flags, and devices, as though each street is a separate tent; the people swarming on balconies and roofs, and the sandy plain outside dark with the companies of knights who come riding in. All the great names are there--Ordoñez, Gonzalez, Peranzurez, Vellidas, on fleet Arab steeds; some rich turbans also of the Moors to be distinguished in the crowd, for the parties are so strangely mixed that the Cid has many close friends among his enemies. Crowds of the common folk come, and retainers from the castle of Bivar, each one with some story to tell about the Cid. From Las Huelgas, the royal burying-ground and fortress, surrounded by walls, a mile out of the city, arrives the abbess, who takes rank as a Princess Palatine, attended by her female chapter, in the full dress of the order, all mounted on mules; monks from the Church of San Pedro de Cardeña, the burying place of the Laynez, and companies of the Ricoshombres from the adjacent cities, trotting over the hills--all disappearing into the huge gateway of Santa Maria to reach the Calle Alta, where the procession is to be formed. The first to appear is the Bishop of Valencia on a mule. He is followed by the Cid, decked in his bridal state, under a trellis-work of green branches, held up by the lances and scimitars he has taken from the Moors, his own troop of true men with him, friends and kinsmen--all dressed in one colour, and shining in new armour. As he passes, olive branches and rushes are laid upon the streets, ladies fling posies and wreaths, and bulls are led before with gilded horns, covered with rich housings. The court fool follows in cap and bells, his particoloured legs astride an ass. A harmless devil comes after, horned and hoofed, hired to frighten the women, and crowds of captive maidens dance to cymbals and flutes. The Queen Doña Sancha walks next, wearing her crown and a “fur pall,” attended by her ladies and dueñas, but the name of Doña Urraca nowhere occurs. Then, hand in hand with the smiling king, comes Ximena; “the king always talking,” as the ballad says, but Ximena holding down her head. “It is better to be silent than meaningless,” she said. Upon her fall showers of yellow wheat. Every shooter, young and old, makes her his mark. From her white shoulders and breast the king picks it off. “A fine thing to be a king,” laughs the fool, “but I would rather be a grain.” In the Gothic Church of Sant’ Agueda, close on the hill, the nuptial knot is tied. After which the king does them great honour at the feast, conferring on them many noble gifts and adding to the lands of the Cid more than as much again.