At this time a Mussulman Emir, named Alabor, ruled in Cordoba under the Sultan Suleiman of Damascus. Alabor, who was a hard and zealous follower of Mahomet, looked with suspicion on the Christian apostates, who professed his faith simply to save their lives, but who in their hearts regarded the Moslem invaders with the natural hatred of a conquered race. Of all those Gothic knights who bore arms under Tháryk, he most misdoubted Julian. Certain movements of insurrection which took place among the Christians in Pelayo’s possessions in the yet unconquered district of the Asturias were not without suspicion of powerful encouragement from the south. Julian, on the death of Florinda, had resolved to send Frandina and his little son back to Africa. Did this mean that he was preparing to play false with his allies? “A traitor once, a traitor ever,” thought the crafty Alabor. That he might decide his doubts in true Moslem fashion, he called in one of those miserable impostors called fakirs, who wander over the face of the land in the East, and profess to read the future by the stars. After listening to all the Emir had to say, the Fakir began his incantation. First sand was sprinkled, then squares and circles and diagrams were drawn upon the floor; then, while standing in the midst, he affected to read the lines of fate from a parchment covered with cabalistic characters. “O Emir,” he said, “your words of wisdom are justified. Beware of the apostates.” “Enough,” replied the Emir. “They shall die.” At that time Julian was still at Cordoba in great grief for the recent death of Florinda. “Tell my lord,” he said, in reply to the earnest invitation of Alabor, “I pray him to hold me excused from coming to visit him. Such of my followers as can aid him in any warlike project I freely send; but for myself I am unable.” This was enough for Alabor; here was ample confirmation of the Fakir’s prediction. So, not to be behindhand with the voice of fate, he at once condemned to death that wily churchman and renegade, Archbishop Opas, Frandina’s brother, who had turned the battle of the Guadalete against Roderich, and with him the two sons of Witica, as possible pretenders to the crown. Still Julian escaped him by a rapid flight into Aragon. But his wife Frandina and his only son could be reached. The castle of Ceuta, which formed part of the Gothic (Iberian) African possessions, then called Tingitana, stood on an extreme point, a cape of rocky altitude, with bastions and mullioned walls; in the midst rose a central tower or citadel, in which the governor had his abode. Few casements there were, and those looking over the tossing billows of that unquiet Strait which flows between the two continents, so that each coming vessel could be noted long before it touched the quay; a place wholly of defence, and which had therefore been chosen to shelter Julian’s wife and son.