Not even the grave immobility of countenance in which the Moslem is trained to conceal his emotions could altogether prevent the movement of amazement with which this speech was received by Mousa and Tháryk and those around. What motive, however, was powerful enough to cause Julian thus to present himself in the face of the assembled chiefs of Islam mattered not to Mousa. Julian had spoken, and his heart leaped within him at the words. How often had he gazed on the low hills along the Spanish coast washed by the Straits! How often had he longed to possess himself of the fair plains lying beyond: a land rich with rivers and pastures, vines, olives, and pomegranates, splendid cities and castles, flowing with milk and honey--and now it was his own! But, wary by nature, and cautious by age, the henna-stained warrior (for it was said of Mousa that, to retain his youthful appearance, he dyed his hair and beard) pauses ere he replies, and turns towards the sheikhs who sit around: “Don Julian,” says he, affecting to knit his bushy eyebrows, “comes here as a traitor. The same treason may be hidden in his word that he shows to his own master. But lately he held the garrisons of the Goths against us in the stronghold of Ceuta, and prevailed. The faithful were driven out, and the Arab camp broken. How can we credit him? The Koran teaches that those who deceive an enemy are blessed.” “Ceuta!” shouts Julian, “yes, O Mousa, you have said well. It is true I drove your Moslems from the field like sheep before the wolves. Yes!” (and even as he speaks his voice grows loud and fierce) “on every side I was hailed as a deliverer, and my heart swelled within me as I thought upon the victory I had won. Then, in the moment when the shouts of the Goths were echoing in my ears, and Roderich made of me almost a king, a letter came to my hand.” Here all expression died out of his face, his powerful frame seemed to stiffen into stone, but from out of the upraised bars of his helmet a menacing fire shone in his eyes, which belied the seeming calm of his demeanour. His gaze was fixed on Mousa, not as though he perceived him, but rather as if the eyes of his mind were ranging far away among the scenes which had brought him to this pass. “Explain, noble Goth,” replies Mousa, “else is your coming vain.” Recalled to himself by the Emir’s voice, Julian proceeded; but he visibly faltered as the words came slowly to his lips. “The dishonour of my house is my reward. My name is blasted while Roderich lives. For this purpose am I come.” “This is a wild tale,” answers Mousa, crossing his arms within the draperies of his robe. “Your own words proclaim you a traitor. You may be true. If false, Allah judge you!” Then it was that Tháryk-el-Tuerto rose and stood forth from among the sheikhs, his one eye gleaming with a savage joy.