“My lord,” replies Julian, bowing low, apparently unmoved by the miserable object grovelling before him, “that is a personal matter, which you alone can decide. The wrongs of a father are the wrongs of his child.” “That is my mind also,” briefly spoke the veteran Teodomir. “And mine--and mine,” ran round the warlike circle, to whom the soft attribute of mercy was unknown--“blood calls for blood. Such is the law of our ancestors.” Loud, too, in assent was heard the voice of Pelistes, moved to something like feeling, as the image of his friend, the noble Theodofredo, rose to his mind, condemned to a slow death within the very castle in which they stand. For the shifting of the Gothic Court to Cordoba, for the trial of Witica on the very spot where Theodofredo suffered was indeed a master-stroke on the part of Roderich to heighten to the utmost pitch of intensity not only the acuteness of his own vengeance, but the sanguinary passions of the Goths. While each noble gives assent, the young Pelayo grows very pale. Was not Favila, his father, lord of the wide district of Cantabria, on the iron-bound coast, besides the range of the Asturian mountains, a Northern king in all but the name? Was not Favila also cruelly put to death. And had not Witica sought to lay his murderous hands on him also? Yet no man heeded. The death of Favila passed unnoticed, and Roderich, at best but a usurper, and Roderich’s wrongs are alone in every mouth! Too young to remonstrate with these elder chiefs, the heart of Pelayo chafes in silent indignation, and he swears to himself that if he lives, the day shall come when ancient Iberia shall ring with the forgotten name of his sire! “And you, most venerable archbishop,” continues Roderich, turning to address himself to Opas, who, as if some claim of kindred had sounded at his heart, had further withdrawn himself when Witica appeared, and stood so placed as to conceal the view of the pathetic spectacle before him--“you who, by your presence here this day, give us so signal a proof of your loyalty, what seems to you just in this matter, so closely touching yourself? We would willingly carry the Church with us. Speak your mind freely, nor let our royal presence in aught prejudice the prisoner.” “My lord,” answers Opas, in a voice which, spite of his efforts to steady it, still sounds scarcely in its natural tone, “my vote lies with my kinsman, Julian. In a matter so nearly concerning myself as a brother’s life and death, it fitteth best for me to be silent.”