Alabor, whose fury knows no bounds, for he has calculated on arriving before the news has reached Frandina, orders the castle to be assaulted on every side. The walls are carried. Frandina, shut up in the citadel with a forlorn hope, has no thought but for the safety of her son. How conceal him? A mother’s wit is keen. Among the living he is not safe, but surely they will not seek him with the dead. Passing down long flights of narrow steps she carries him below into a dark, damp chapel. Scarcely a ray of light penetrates the gloom. “Are you afraid of the darkness, my boy?” she asks, kissing his warm cheek. “No, mother. I shall fancy that it is night, and try to sleep.” On one side of a narrow marble aisle, held up by clustered pillars, is the freshly built tomb of Florinda, whose body has been carried here from Cordoba. “Do you fear your dead sister, my boy?” again Frandina asks. “No, mother; the dead can do no harm. Why should I fear Florinda?” Unbarring the entrance which leads into the vault, Frandina stands on the threshold, her arms around her son. “Listen,” she says, and her kisses rain upon his cheek as she strains him to her bosom in an agony of fear. “The Moors from Spain have sailed over to murder you. Stay here with your dead sister, dear child; her spirit will guard you. Lie quiet for your life!” The boy kissed his mother, and fearlessly descended the steps, to where the marble coffin holding Florinda’s body lay on a still uncovered stand. The faded wreaths cast on it gave out a stale perfume. All that day and the next and the following night the brave boy lay still. Meanwhile, the troops of the Emir penetrated into the citadel, and Alabor himself forced his way into the chamber of the countess. “My lord,” she said, rising from the ponderous chair in which she was seated, a sarcastic courtesy in her tone and in the low obeisance with which she greeted him, “you are pleased to profit somewhat ungallantly by the absence of my lord. Do you deem this a fitting way to enter the stronghold of him to whom you owe the conquest of Spain?” The Emir, surprised by the dignified calm of her demeanour, would have withdrawn, but the Fakir who had followed him, pulled the sleeve of his garment, and whispered in his ear: “Ask for her son.” Low as the words were spoken, she heard them and turned pale. “My son, great Alabor, is with the dead. Let him rest in peace.” “Wife of Don Julian,” cried the Emir, “you trifle with me. Where is he? Tell me, or torture shall make you.” “Emir,” she spoke again, and her calm face showed no trace of fear, “if I have not spoken the truth, may everlasting fire be my portion. He is with the dead.” Alabor was confounded by the composure of her answer. So great was her courage and the dignity with which she faced him, that he was just about to retire, when the Fakir again broke in: