“Happy are the dead,” was his reply, in a voice that vibrated with emotion. “They rest in peace after the hard-fought struggle. My companions in arms have fallen with honour, while I live to see fair Spain the prey of strangers. My son is dead, cut down by my side in battle. My friends are gone, I have reason to weep for them. But one there is”--and he raised his voice and a dark fire came into his pale eye--“one for whom I shall never cease to mourn; of all my brothers in arms he was the dearest. Of all the Gothic knights he was the bravest. Alas! where is he? I know not. There is no record of his death in battle, or I would seek for him in the waters of the Guadalete, or on the plains of Xerez; or if, like so many others, he is doomed to slavery in a foreign land, I would join him in exile, and we would mourn our country’s loss together.” So pathetic was the tone of Pelistes, so thrilling, that Maguel and the emirs who sat round asked anxiously, “Who is he?” “His name,” answered Pelistes, with lowered voice, glancing round the table as he spoke, “was Don Julian, Conde Espatorios of Spain.” “How,” cried Maguel, “my honoured guest, are you smitten with sudden blindness? Behold your friend. Do you not see him? He is seated there,” pointing to Julian, at some distance down the board, attired in the turban and long embroidered caftan of a Moor. Pelistes paused, slowly raised his eyes, then sternly fixed them on Julian. “In the name of God, stranger, answer me,” he said, “how dare you presume to personate the Conde Espatorios?” Stung to the quick, Julian rose, flinging a furious glance on the calm, cold eyes riveted upon him. “Pelistes,” he cried, “what means this mockery? You know me well. I am Julian.” “I know you for a base apostate,” thundered Pelistes, the great wrath within him finding sudden vent, “an apostate and a traitor. Julian, my friend, was a Christian knight, devoted, true, and valiant, but _you_, you have no name. Infidel, renegade, and traitor, the earth you tread abhors you. The men you lead curse you, for you have betrayed Spain and your king. Therefore, I repeat, O man unknown, if you declare you are Don Julian, you lie. He, alas! is dead, and you are some fiend from hell who wears his semblance. No longer can I brook the sight.” So, rising from the table, Pelistes departed, turning his back on Julian, overwhelmed with confusion, amid the scornful smiles of the Moslem knights, who used while they despised him. As yet, however, all had gone well with him. If a traitor, his treason was successful. He held high command among the Arabs under Tháryk and Mousa, and amassed great wealth by his country’s spoil, but he loathed himself more and more. He knew that all men despised him. Too old and too serious for the sensual life of the Moors, and as a warrior little caring to be delicately fed and housed, he sought solace in the company of his masculine but faithful wife, Florinda, and his little son.