Brightly gleamed the Christian fires around their camp, but sadly to his ear came the plaints of the soldiers wounded in the skirmish, who had crawled to the river bank to slake their thirst. Then with a groan, a dying Moor, doomed to expire alone under an alien sky, called on him to stay, and his trusty horse stumbled, and nearly fell, over the prostrate body of a dead knight lately prancing proudly under the sun. The heart of the page faltered. Fain would he have stayed, for he had served in courts, and was of a gentle nature, but never for a moment did he tarry on his course, or let compassion tempt him to help such as called on him for aid. His master’s word was law, and he had said, “Haste thee on thy way for life and death.” Challenged by the Christian sentinels, he spoke the words Julian had taught him, and passed through to the tent of the archbishop. Opas, as one of those militant churchmen so common in that age, having doffed his suit of mail, was resting after the fight. When his own brother had fallen, without remorse he turned to Roderich. Now Roderich in his turn was betrayed and he bethought himself of his kinsfolk. A stern, high-featured man, with a ready smile, like winter sunshine upon snow, merciless and hypocritical, he had steered his way through two stormy reigns, and was now believed by Roderich to be as devoted to his cause as he had seemed to be to the unhappy Witica. When he saw the ring his brother-in-law had sent him, he made no reply. For awhile he contemplated the page curiously, slowly passing his jewelled fingers over his clean-shaven chin, lost in thought; then he broke silence: “Doubtless,” said the hypocrite, “the message is from God. Your master Julian is but the mouthpiece of the Most High. Since the divine voice has spoken, and given us time to consider its judgment, it behoves me, his servant in all things, to accomplish his will. Hasten back to your lord, good page, and tell him to have faith in his wife’s brother. As yet my own troops have not unsheathed the sword, but are fresh and ready. At the hour of noon to-morrow, when both armies are engaged, let him look out; I will pass over to the Moslem.” With this treacherous message the page departed, making no noise, and as he guided his black horse along the lines of the river as he had come, the sound of an arrow whistled by his ear, a random shot which did not harm him. CHAPTER VI Battle of Guadalete--Overthrow of Don Roderich All night a light burned in the tent of Don Roderich. If he slept, his slumbers were troubled. Now the pale form of Florinda rises before him with sad eyes, then the hideous vision of the necromantic Tower of Hercules haunts him. He starts up, and, opening the purple hangings of his tent, gazes out at the starry splendour of the Southern night.