“By the Prophet, O Caliph,” answers Mahoun, crossing his arms as he rose to his feet, and bending his supple body in a deep salaam, “tidings of many colours--good and bad.” “Give me the bad first, O Vizier! After a storm the sun’s rays shine brightest. Proceed.” “Don Pelayo, the Goth, son of the Christian noble, Dux of Cantabria, murdered by his kinsman,” continued the vizier, “or, as some call him, Pelagius--for these Gothic dogs much affect Roman names--the leader of the Christians, has disappeared. Nor can the cunning inquiries of Kerim, whom in your wisdom you have placed as governor over these newly conquered provinces, obtain any record of where he has gone. Some say to the French Court to ask succour for the remnant who still cling to his fortunes; others that he has died by treachery, or fallen in fight. So constant were these rumours, O Caliph, that the Goths, discouraged by his long absence, had fallen into disunion; the wisest (and they are few) were willing to submit to the rule of Kerim; the greater part (fools) prepared to elect the Gothic Infanta Onesinda, his sister, as queen--when of a sudden, Pelayo himself returns, and, with a horde of Christian beggars at his back, raises the standard of revolt in Galicia near Gijon.” “What!” cries the Caliph, suddenly interested, “is Pelayo the youth, cousin of Don Roderich, who fought at the battle of the Guadalete close to his chariot, and never left him until he himself vanished from the battlefield? I have heard of Pelayo. He is of royal birth.” “The same, O Caliph. Grandson of King Chindavinto, his father, murdered by that unclean beast Witica, predecessor of Roderich. Pelayo ends the line of Gothic princes. Kerim despises him as a despicable barbarian shut up on a mountain, where his followers die of hunger; they have no food but herbs and honey gathered in the rocks. Let not my Lord regard him.” “Call you this good news, O Mahoun? A hero is ever a hero, even in rags! Though he is my enemy, I respect his valour. Had Roderich fought with like courage in the defence of Spain, we might now be eating dates in our tents under our native palms. The courage of the chief represents the spirit of the nation, as the flash of the lightning precedes the thunderbolt. _One_ cannot scathe without the other.” “But, O Caliph of the Faithful,” interrupts the vizier, again prostrating himself to the ground, “the good news is yet untold. Pelayo’s sister, Onesinda, is now in our hands,--Kerim, the Governor of Gijon, has captured her.” A smile of satisfaction overspread the Caliph’s face. Then, as other thoughts seemed to gather in his mind, he raised his hand and thoughtfully passed it across the thick black curls of his beard.