rider, careers wildly on, as though in search of the loved master, the touch of whose hand she knows so well! Roderich, paralysed with horror, sees no more, but rushing from the magic hall, the rumble of phantom drums and trumpets in his ear, commands that the iron doors of the Tower of Hercules be for ever closed. Such was the warning, but he heeded not. * * * * * On July 26, 711, beside the river Guadalete (Wady Lete), near Xerez, was fought out the fate of Spain. A dull, dreary region, over which the eye now wanders objectless, save for a far-off lying tower, or a solitary pine marked against the horizon; the scent of lavender and rosemary strong in the wind, like incense rising up for the forgotten dead, whose bones whitened the plain. The Moors, under the command of Tháryk, “the one-eyed,” were inferior in numbers to the Goths, but compacter and more dexterous, accustomed to constant warfare, and headed by experienced leaders. As the rays of the setting sun caught the wide circle of the Moslem camp the evening before the battle, a motley crowd of many tribes met the astonished eyes of the Goths: Berbers from North Africa in white turbans and white flying bournous, armed with lance and wattled shields; roving Bedouins on the fleetest steeds, their glossy coats hung with beads and charms; Ethiopians, black as night; Nubians with matted hair, and men from Barbary and Tunis. On landing at Tarifa, near the rock of Gibraltar, Thàryk had burnt every ship. “Behold,” said he, pointing to the flames which ran swiftly along the wood of the light African _triremes_, “there is now no escape for cowards. We conquer, or we die. Your home is before you,” and he pointed to the low line of inland hills which bound the horizon. As he spoke, an ancient woman, covered with a woollen sheet gathered about her naked limbs, drew near to where he was standing surrounded by his sheikhs, waving a white rag. “Great Emir,” quoth she, falling on the earth to kiss his feet in Eastern fashion, “I am the bearer of a prophecy written by an ancient seer. He foretold that the Moors would overrun our country, if a leader should appear known by these signs: On his right shoulder is a mole, and his right arm is longer than his left, so that he can cover his knee with one hand without bending down.” Tháryk listened with grave attention, then laid bare his arms. There was the mole, and so much did his right arm exceed the left in length, that he could clasp his knee with his hand.