Outside, the gaily-tinted streets are variegated as in a patchwork of colour, and over against the dried-up banks of the river Arlanzon (where the tournament was held for the marriage of Don Pedro and Queen Blanche), the grand old gothic gateway of Santa Maria appears, from out of which the Cid rode to join the Moors when no one dared to give him a crust of bread in Burgos. * * * * * The time is morning, and an unclouded sun has just risen above the horizon. Already the idlest and the most eager are afoot, to secure a good position for the review to be held by King Juan I. Before the clock has struck ten from the cathedral, the crowd has so increased that the whole plain is alive with horsemen and foot-passengers, _cabelleros_ splendidly mounted, _ricoshombres_ in chariots and _portantini_, and peasants with sturdy stride: every one muffled up to the eyes, which is the fashion of Castilians, even when it is hot--all making their way, on the grass or by country roads and foot-paths, to the Cartuga de Miraflores seen from afar on the summit of a chalky down, sweet with the perfume of thyme and rosemary, over which the summer clouds strike light shadows. Flourishes of trumpets announce the passage of knights with glistening helmets, and the glitter of gold-embroidered banners, masses of moving horsemen and squadrons of troops, mixed with crescent flags and turbans of many colours, the light Barbary horses caracoling here and there, covered with nets of coins and chains, catching the sunbeams; announcing the presence of an army and the evolutions of many troops, especially of a picked body habited like Berbers, who gallop forward in gallant style, brandishing their scimitars to the rattle of drums and fifes. Anon a mounted figure dashes out from the main body of troops, wearing a suit of light chain armour in which gold is the chief metal, a spiked crown mixing with the feathers of his casque, mounted on a heavy-flanked charger of the old gothic breed so loved by the sovereigns of Spain, which he fiercely urges forward with spur and heel in front of the rapidly riding Berbers, until the unwieldy animal, gored by the sharp rowels of steel, rears and turns aside, dashing the crowned rider onto the ground, where he lies motionless! A cry of horror rises from the field. The king is wounded! The king is unhorsed; he is dead! Knights in their light panoply are arrested in their charge; courtiers in jewelled mantles on ambling jennets rein up; men-at-arms, young pages with nodding plumes on silken caps, all, all, in one dense mass, gathering around the fallen figure of the king, Juan I., son of Henry of Trastamare (1379), who came out to review some regiments just arrived from Africa habited to represent the Moors, and going through their graceful evolutions with lance and scimitar.