The Christians had pitched their tents at sunset, somewhat distant from the Moors, whose black banners, with mysterious signs, dark tents, and savage weapons inspired them with awe. Before night, Don Roderich sent out a picked squadron of the Gothic bodyguard to skirmish with the enemy, with flags and standards bearing the same device as those which had floated before Alaric at the walls of Rome. Each chief, encased in ponderous armour, in singular contrast to the light-armed Moors--attended by esquires heavily armed also, and bowmen and men-at-arms. Old Teodomir led them, having come from his government of Murcia, with many another tried Gothic chief; Ataulfo, and the grey-headed Pelistes, heading, with the traditions of the earliest times, his vassals and retainers. With him was his young son, who had never borne arms but in the lists of the tourney. The young Pelayo had craved to be present, to flesh his maiden sword against the enemy, but the jealousy of Roderich, who hated all those of the old race, had forbidden it; an affront that so rankled in his soul that he swore what seemed then a foolish oath, but which time ratified--to lead his countrymen or to die. To this goodly array of Christian knights the Moors were not slow to correspond. Ranks of fleet horsemen rode out in the failing light, under the command of Julian (ever to the fore where the fighting was hottest), sacrificing many a gallant life in empty skirmishing, all by the advice of the Archbishop Opas, whose tent lay near to Roderich, while he secretly guided the Moors. Old Tháryk, astonished by this prompt display of the valour of the Goths, and their devotion to their king, sought out Julian, sternly remonstrating: “You told me your countrymen were sunk in sloth and effeminacy under a dastard king. But behold, I see their tents whitening the plains and his army to be reckoned by thousands upon thousands of good fighting men. Woe unto you, O Christian knight, if, to work out your own vengeance, you have lured me with false words.” Julian, greatly troubled, retired to his tent, and called to him his page, the same who had brought him the letter of Florinda from Toledo. “My pretty boy,” he said, passing his arm about his neck, “you know that I love you almost as a son. Now is the time to serve me. Hie to the Christian camp, and find the tent of my kinsman, Archbishop Opas. Show him this ring, and tell him Julian greets him and demands how Florinda can be avenged. Mark well his answer. Repeat it word by word. Carry close lips and open eyes in the enemy’s camp. If challenged, say you are one of the household of the archbishop, bearing missives from Cordoba. So speed you well, my boy. Away, away, away.” Along the margin of the Guadalete he rode, the soft turf giving back no sound. A sword girded to his saddle-bow, a dagger in his belt, mounted on a steed as fleet as air, and black in colour as the night.