That the king was so depraved by the indulgence of his life as not to be haunted by the shame of what he had done is difficult to believe. That he counted, however, on the secrecy of Florinda would seem certain from the indifference he displayed to the consequences of his action as affecting his relations with Julian, at that very time leading his army against the Moorish hosts, commanded by the veteran general, Mousa, in the neighbourhood of Ceuta. * * * * * “Those whom the gods forsake, they blind,” says the Pagan proverb. It is certainly impossible to explain the inactivity of the once valiant Roderich by any rational course of reasoning. Not only had the rumour of approaching battle come from the African shores, but swift messengers had brought to Toledo the news that the rock of Calpe (Gibraltar) in Spain bristled with scimitars, led by the ferocious old Berber, Tháryk, with his single eye. “Tell Roderich the Goth,” ran the message, “that Tháryk has crossed the Straits to conquer his kingdom, and that he will not return until he has made the Goth lick the dust before him.” Whatever blindness had fallen on Roderich, the consciousness of her disgrace soon forced itself on the mind of Florinda. Guilty or not, despair at last took possession of her. For a time she was silent, but unable to endure her shame, and horrified at her treason towards the queen, who ever tenderly cherished her, in a paroxysm of remorseful grief she caught up a pen and wrote to Julian: “Would to God, my father, that the earth had swallowed me ere I came to Toledo! What am I to tell you of that which it is meet to conceal? Alas! my father, your lamb has been entrusted to the wolf. She were better dead than dishonoured. Hasten to rescue your unhappy Florinda. Come quickly.” Tying this brief missive in a square of silk, and fastening it with a ribbon, she called to her a young page, bred at her father’s court, who had been especially appointed to her service. “Adolfo,” said she, and sobs were in her voice, “saddle the swiftest steed you can lay hands on, and if ever, dear _niño_, you aspire to the honours of a belted knight in the service of my father, or hope for lady’s grace in the tourney; if ever--” here she burst into a flood of tears, moved by her own vehemence. “Oh, sweet Adolfo, dear little page, reared up in my home, for the love of Christ, ride day and night until you reach the sea. Then, at the price of gold, which I give you,” and she placed in his hands a heavy purse, “take the best boat and the swiftest rowers, and with flowing sail speed to my father at Ceuta, nor eat nor drink until you have placed this writing in his hand.” Before the eager Florinda, whose every feature spoke the deadly anxiety she felt, the page, cap in hand, bowed low. “Trust me, noble daughter of my honoured lord. I will truly execute your trust. Swiftly will I ride, nor turn aside for aught but death, either by land or sea.”