A sorrowful procession, fitly set in the impenetrable wilds which surround them, solemn as themselves, who want no spur to their resolve to sell their blood dear in the cause of their country. But if they did, surely the slight form they are bearing, so cruelly sacrificed to the Moor, is enough to stir up their souls to never-ending vengeance. [Illustration: THE ROMAN BRIDGE AT SALAMANCA.] Silently the bearers rest the bier upon the green platform of grass before the cave. Then Pelayo advances to the front, and putting back with his hands the thickly trailing thorns that impede the opening, the bier is placed within under the shadows of an overlapping stone. Not a word has been spoken, but many streams murmur as they go bubbling in the sun, and the splash of the distant waterfalls answers, and the sighing of the wind passes with hollow sound. Only the shrill cry of an eagle catches the ear as it swoops upon its prey, unconscious of the presence of man. By a common instinct the Gothic chiefs gather before the cave, the lofty figure of Pelayo towering above them all. These men represent a nation conquered, fugitive, helpless, but still a nation which will never die, but live to bring forth long lines of kings in succeeding centuries to rule over two hemispheres. They know it, these Gothic chiefs, the prophecy is in them--a solemn faith in the justice of their cause, which tells them the hordes of unbelievers shall not prevail. And as they wait, by other paths, invisible to the eye but known to the fugitives, emerge the dark forms of other brothers-in-arms, who now join the group. Every eye seeks Pelayo, by whose invincible courage, wisdom, and endurance this small remnant has been saved. Every eye seeks his as he stands aside leaning against a rock, insensible, as it seems, to all but his own affliction. Then Friula, nearest in kinship to the royal line, speaks: “The time is come, brothers, that we must choose a chief. Long has the noble Pelayo led us. He has now another vengeance to fulfil. The moment is opportune. Onesinda is dead. The butcher Kerim has been summoned to Cordoba. The garrison of Gijon lacks a defender. Let him lead us there as king.” “As king,” comes ringing from every side of the shrouded summits, which catch the words and bear them from hollow, spanless depths to wild, yawning gorges among the black cliffs, down which green waters pour from the gloomy precincts of the cave where rest the remains of Onesinda. “Let him be king!” sounds in many tones like a chant of freedom, intoned by these Asturian wilds, which never had felt the foot of mortal foe. As the voices die away amid a thousand echoes, Pelayo turns and raises his steel helmet, showing the careworn lines of his deeply wrinkled face lit up by no gleam of triumph. Ere he speaks he raises his hand, and points to the deep shadow of the cave.