But when her foster-father, Don Arias, knew it, he went to her and spoke: “My Infanta, you cannot harbour this traitor, otherwise all the Castilians outside will accuse you of murder.” “What can I do?” she answers. “See how he clings to my robe.” She knew she had encouraged him in what he had done, and in the letters she had written, and fain would she have saved him. But Don Arias would listen to nothing. “Give Dolfos up to me;” and he drew him away by force, the poor wretch trembling all over, with no strength to stand. “Come, Dolfos,” says Don Arias, “be of good cheer; to please the Infanta, I will hide you three days in my house. If the Castilians impeach us, I must give you up. If they do not, you shall escape from the town. Here you cannot bide, for we are honourable men, and keep no company with traitors.” After King Sancho’s death came Don Alfonso, to be known as _El Sabio_, to join his sister at Zamora, who had always loved him well. A council was called in the palace. The Castilians, Navarrese, Leonese, and the Gallegos, being already his subjects, are ready to acknowledge him as king if he can clear himself of all knowledge of the murder of his brother. The ricoshombres, counts and knights, the prelates and chief persons have already kissed his hand; but the Cid sits apart. The image of his dead master rises up between him and Alfonso. It was he who had found Don Sancho by the side of the Douro wounded to death by his own hunting-spear, which he dared not draw forth for fear of killing him outright. “Now, how is this, Cid Campeador?” asks the new king, who, in majesty of person and speech and wisdom, was much more like his sister Doña Urraca than Don Sancho. “See you not that all have received me for their lord except you? Why have you not kissed my hand?” “Sir,” answers the Cid, rising from where he sat, “the reason is this: all these present, as well as I, suspect you of having compassed your brother’s death. Unless you can clear yourself, I will never kiss your hand or acknowledge you as king.” “Your words please me well,” is the king’s reply, spoken softly, but rage was in his heart. “I swear to God and St. Mary I never slew him or took counsel of his death, and I will clear myself of the charge by oath within the church of Sant’ Agueda at Burgos.” The ancient church of St. Gaden or Sant’ Agueda, not far from the Suelos of the Cid, and where he was married, is filled with the noblest company in Castile; the Cid, towering over all, at the high altar, in chain armour from top to heel, his good sword Tizona at his side, and in his hand a cross-bow of wood and steel. Face to face is King Alfonso in royal robes, his hand upon a painted missal beside the Host. “King Don Alfonso,” says the Cid, in his terrible voice, so well known in the battle-field, “will you swear that you have not compassed the death of my king and master, your brother Don Sancho? If you swear falsely, may you die the death of a traitor and a slave.”