One day as Don Fernando stands at the entrance of the royal tent, casting those prominent eyes of his across the plains, and counting by the number of outposts in how many days he may hope to plant the flag of Castile upon the Giralda tower, rising so tall and graceful before him, he beholds a Christian knight with a companion and an esquire riding by the bank of the river below, carelessly as a man who takes the air on a fine summer’s day, and loiters on the way the better to enjoy it. Lightly the knight carries his lance in rest upon his thigh. His vizor is raised over a bright young face. At his side hangs his sword, held by a golden chain; on his arm flutters a scarf striped red and blue, and the same colours shine radiant in the sunshine on the plume which nods from his helmet. “Now, who is this young fool,” cries Fernando in a rage, “who dares ride forth into the enemy’s camp as if he were the herald of a tournament? Does he think that I allow my knights thus to sacrifice their lives? or that he has a right to risk it?” Then, as he watches his progress, always farther and farther into the outworks of the Moor, “Who is he?” he cries again. “Will no one tell me his name? Methinks it were well for him he had shriven himself before he started, or his soul will be the worse for it very briefly.” Before the king could be answered, a loud voice shouted at his ear: “Ride, ride for your life, Garcia Perez of Varga. I see the gleam of Moorish lances near at hand. Ride on, or you are lost.” The voice that shouted was that of the Conde Lorenzo, the king’s Jefe, who, coming up behind the king at that moment, and having longer sight than his, recognised Don Garcia’s cognisance, a red cross and a green tree, and called out to warn him of his danger. “Sire,” says he, in a lower tone, bowing before Fernando, “pardon me, I see seven Moors on horseback. They are in ambuscade in that wood yonder. They have sighted Don Garcia, and are waiting to break out upon him as he passes. Therefore I warned him.” “Don Garcia Perez is it?” quoth the king, his eyes following those of Count Lorenzo upon the plain. “I could lose no better man. For die he will, as surely as Christ suffered on the cross. Blow for blow he will give them, but seven to one is too great odds.” As to Don Garcia, he is too far off to hear any voice, let them shout ever so loudly. On he rides tranquilly, as a lover to his mistress; but as [Illustration: Photo Levy et Fils. A VIEW OF THE INTERIOR OF THE CATHEDRAL AT BURGOS.]