Placing the letter in the bosom of his gaudy vest, he kissed her hand and sped his way, mounted a fast horse he found in the _patio_ of the Palace, galloped down the declivity, through the Golden Gate, and so on into the eternal plains which gird about Toledo, until clouds of dust concealed him from Florinda’s anxious gaze. Meanwhile, Julian, fighting valiantly in Africa, had just repulsed an attack of Mousa on the castle of Ceuta, standing on a cape which juts out into the Straits, the nearest point to the Spanish mainland. It was a desperate struggle; the Moors, under the command of the famous Arabs, rallying again and again. The news of such a success spread round not only in Africa but over all the breadth of Spain. The landing of the Moors in Andalusia was a constant subject of terror on the mainland. Men knew that the Gothic nation no longer held together as under the early kings, and that each chief looked to himself alone, caring but little what became of his neighbours. The castles were dismantled by the selfish policy of Witica and Roderich, and the army was sunk into the same luxurious ease as the rest of the nation. The name of Julian was soon on every lip. He was hailed as a saviour, and blessings invoked on him as the bulwark of the Cross. With the sound of this homage ringing in his ears, the page arrives at Ceuta, bearing the letter from Florinda. Julian at once summons him to his tent, as perchance the bearer of some signal [Illustration: THE GATE OF THE MOSQUE OF CORDOVA.] honour bestowed upon him by the king, or of some royal recompense for his services. “What tidings from Don Roderich?” he asks. “None, my lord,” is the answer. “I rode in haste away, without seeing the king. What I bear is a letter from the Lady Florinda.” “Florinda--how fares she?” “Well, my lord,” answers the page, as he takes the silken packet from his bosom. Cutting the ribbon that binds it with his dagger, Julian reads the miserable lines; word after word brings a terrible certainty to his mind; he stands in speechless anguish, then, flinging the parchment from him, he folds his arms, while one by one the burning remembrance of each act of devotion to Roderich stings him to the soul. It is a terrible reckoning; a dark and malignant fury enters into his soul, not only against Roderich, but against all Spain, the scene of his dishonour, the home of his disgrace. “And this,” cries he, when words come to his lips, “is my reward for serving a villain! This is the return he makes me for the hostage of my child! May I die a slave if I rest until I have given him full measure in return!” CHAPTER IV Don Julian Goes over to the Moors