if some instinct suddenly struck him, at the same moment that the Conde Lorenzo calls out to him from the hill, he lowers the vizor of his helmet, crested by the wing of a black eagle, grasps the hilt of his lance firmly in his hand, and turning back to his companion, by no means so well armed as himself, and secretly recommending himself to every saint in the calendar, “The Moors are sure to be on us,” he says, “it were well to make ready for them. Buckle your girths tightly and take care they do not shake you from the saddle.” Instead of answering, Don Juan Attiz (for that was his name) set spurs to his horse, riding furiously towards the back camp, leaving Don Garcia alone with his esquire. “Ha! ha! is it so?” laughs he, watching his companion as his horse’s hoofs tear up the turf. “Better to be alone with me, Baldo” (to his esquire), “than to have such a coward at my heels. Hey! for Castile and Leon!” Now softly, one by one, the Moors come creeping out from their ambush in the wood (there is no mistaking them now, the sun shone upon their round steel caps and their smooth shields), one by one, like Agag, “delicately,” until seven Moslem knights place themselves across the path by which Don Garcia rides, the last one carrying a flag bearing the mystic symbol of an open hand, the same as is still to be seen carved over the principal gateway of the Alhambra. “By Santiago!” cries King Fernando, anxiously watching from the hill. “Observe Don Garcia. The seven Moors are ranging themselves on the grass. Yet, to look at them, one would say it is they who are afraid, not he, he rides on so boldly.” “And so it is, sire,” answers the chamberlain, his eye fixed on the plain; “I warrant their hearts beat louder than his. The Moors stand back in line, while Garcia advances. See, now he pauses, as though he did not see them--pauses and speaks to his esquire. My lord, you will soon sing a _Te Deum_ in the Seville mosque, if all your army be as brave as Don Garcia.” “Did ever man behold the like?” replies King Fernando, shading his eyes the better to observe him. “Now Garcia is taking off his casque. He is wiping his head. He is calling his esquire up beside him. God be thanked we have such Christian knights! May the Blessed Virgin guard him, and bring him safe back.” * * * * * “Come hither,” Don Garcia is saying to his esquire, taking no more notice of the seven Moors than if they were seven statues; while they, in their turn, mark with dismay the red cross and the green tree emblazoned on his shield. Too well they know that device, and when they see whom they have waylaid they wish themselves elsewhere. “Come hither, the sun is hot upon my head. Take my casque from me and hold it for awhile; there is no need why I should heat myself with such a weight.”