“Then I will teach you,” he answers, fast losing command over himself. “Do you love me?” and he draws her to him so near that his quick-coming breath plays upon her cheek. Ever farther and farther she strives to retreat; ever nearer and nearer Don Roderich presses her, his glowing eyes resting on her like flames. “My lord,” she says at last, trembling from head to foot, “my father told me to revere you as himself. I was to be to you and to the queen as a daughter. To your protection I look, may it never fail.” A terrible fear possessed her of coming danger, as she shaped her words to this appeal, and had a spark of loyalty remained in the heart of Don Roderich, her reproof would have brought him to a better mind, but an evil destiny had doomed him to work out his own ruin. “Florinda,” he cries, seizing her by both hands so as to draw her to him by force, “innocent as you are, you must understand me. It is not the love for a father nor the submission to a king I ask of you. It is _love_. Ah! tremble not, fair one, there is nothing to scare you. None shall know it. Deep in our hearts it shall lie. Nor does the love of your king degrade you like that of a common man. All the power of the Gothic throne shall compass you with delights, and I will make your father Julian greater than myself.” At these base words the rising terror of Florinda gave place to indignation. Her soft eyes kindled with a fire far different from that which Don Roderich would have desired. “I understand, my lord,” she answers, in a firm voice; “but none of my race hold power by evil means. My father would rather die than accept such dishonour. But,” and an ill-assured smile plays about her mouth, “I believe you mean but to try me; you think me too stupid and childish to serve the queen. I pray your pardon for taking a jest in such foolish earnest.” The blanched face of Florinda ill-corresponded with the words which her quivering lips could scarcely articulate. “May I die,” cries Don Roderich, “if I speak aught but truth. My heart, my kingdom, are at your command. Be mine, fair angel, and the Goths shall know no rule but yours.” But now, the courage of Florinda, timid and girlish as she was, rises up within her. “My lord, I am in your power,” are her words. “You may kill me, but there you stop. My will you can never force.” Then, casting up her arms with a gesture of despair, she flees, vanishing among the long lines of pillars in the hall; and such was the power of her anger that the king dares not follow her. And here we must leave her with a wonder whether the assiduous worship paid her by Roderich was _always_ repulsed with a like vigour, or if the opprobrious name of _La Cava_ with which she came to be branded in the legends of the time was not undeserved.