What were Roderich’s thoughts as he sat motionless? Did he recall the prophecy of his fall, when, contrary to the advice of the archbishop, who implored him to respect a mystery held sacred for generations, he had forced his way into the magic Tower of Hercules, planted on the cliffs outside Toledo, and in spite of all warnings had broken the lock of the enchanted casket, and unfolded the linen cloths on which were painted miniature figures of horsemen wearing turbans and Eastern tunics, scimitars at their sides, and crossbows at their saddle-bows, carrying pennons and banners with crescents and Moorish devices--all of which at first appeared small, as a pattern to be folded up, then grew and expanded into the size of life,--squadrons of Moorish warriors filling the space, as they moved upwards out of the cloth, in ever-lengthening lines, to the faint sound of distant warlike instruments; becoming ever larger and louder as the enchantment grew, and the figures waxing greater to the far-off clash of cymbals and trumpets, the neighing of war-steeds snorting in the charge, and shouts as of the approach of serried hosts? And, as Don Roderich gazed as one stupefied before the vision he had audaciously invoked, plainer and plainer became the motion of the figures, and wilder the din, as the linen cloth rolled itself higher and higher and spread and amplified out of the casket, until it rose into the dome of the hall, its texture no longer visible, but moving with the air, the shadowy figures plainer and yet plainer in their fierce warfare, and the din and uproar more appalling as they formed into the semblance of a great battlefield where Christians and Moors strove with each other in deadly conflict; the rush and tramp of horses ever clearer, the blast of trumpet and clarion shriller and louder, the clash of swords and maces, the thud of battle-axes striking together, the whistle of ghostly arrows through the air, and the hurling of lances and darts--while phantom drums rumbled as by thousands with the under-note of war; two battling hosts clearly discerned, presenting all the phases of a desperate combat. And now, behold the phantom lines of Christians quail before the infidel, pressing on them in shadowy thousands, the standard of the Cross is felled, the Gothic banner fouled, the air resounds with shouts, yells of fury, and groans of dying men; and plain among the flying hosts is seen a mounted form, bearing the semblance of a shadowy king--a golden crown encircles his helmet--mounted on a white steed with blood-stained haunches, the satin-coated Orelia gallantly bearing him out of the battle. No countenance is visible, for his back is turned, but in the fashion of the inlaid armour, the jewelled circlet, the device, and graceful lines of his favourite war-horse, Don Roderich, with eyes dilated with horror, beholds himself flying across the plains! Unseated in the _mêlée_ he disappears; and Orelia, without a