This is the true Iberia, the cradle of the race, the title borne by the eldest born of Spain, the stronghold which has held out last against all conquerors. The Romans left their mark at Gijon; in the south the Moors stamped the soil with their lineaments; in the east, Catalonia formed a separate kingdom, with laws and customs; Navarre, with its ancient line of kings, raised Alpine barriers. But the mountain crests are free, and those deep cavernous recesses which cut the rocks resound only to the shrill cry of the eagle or the bleat of the wild deer. Full in the front of a stupendous face of rock, facing east, the mouth of a deep cave opens; the narrow track which leads to it ends here, Nature herself forbids further progress. Piles, avalanches rather, of black boulders, the spittle and waste of mountains shaken by earthquakes in bygone ages, have fallen from above, and, smoothed by time to dull surfaces of greys and greens, guard its opening, shrouded by a feathery veil of thorn, ivy, and wild trailing plants which love the shade. From within the cave a transparent rivulet murmurs forth in a bed of coloured pebbles to meet the sun and join its feeble ripple to the louder sound of other waters flowing from the gorge above. In front the grass spreads soft and verdant; cups of the early crocuses peep out, lilac and white, and dark purple violets nestle under dry leaves, filling the air with fragrance. A few scraggy beech-trees turn their white trunks outwards, the roots deeply imbedded in the rocks, and clumps of low firs and juniper follow the almost imperceptible track which leads onwards to remoter glens. * * * * * Slowly mounting from below, a little band of Goths, clad in the homespun jerkins which distinguish them at once from their gaudily attired conquerors, ascend the path, stepping from rock to rock. The dry leaves of winter rustle beneath their feet as they pass up under the gnarled boughs of scraggy oaks. Carefully the foremost ones plant their steps upon the stones, as they bear upon a crossed frame the body of Onesinda, which the Christians of Gijon secured in the confusion following her death and the arrival of the herald summoning Kerim to Cordoba. A dark pall covers her, and so slight and fragile is her form that the outline of her figure scarcely raises the folds. Behind appears the stalwart figure of Pelayo, wearing the Gothic cap of steel and armed with the simple accoutrements of a Dacian warrior. Not a tear moistens his eye. His face is set and white, marked by the vicissitudes and hardships of his life; a countenance on which Nature has set her seal as a leader of men--the sole remaining link of the early Gothic kings. Behind him follow three other chiefs, who have joined in an eternal hatred to the Moor, Friula, Teudis, and Recesvinto.