“Now, for my father’s kingdom I would not let thee escape, dastard as thou art!” said Ramiro, as he strode up to Garcia and forced him to defend himself. In a moment Ramiro was standing over his prostrate and bleeding antagonist with his sword lifted for the death-blow. As he was about to strike in self-defence, hearing the rapid step of Garcia’s assistants, he saw that they were already panic-struck at the sight of their fallen master, and were turning back in flight. Staying his hand, he said, “Rise, Garcia--for thy father’s sake I spare thee. Thou wilt henceforth avoid the son of the Moorish Caya.” Then taking the lady Blanca, who was fainting with the effects of her terror, once again in his arms, he bore her into the house of Don Pedro, and left the vanquished ravisher in pain of body and mortification of heart. “Tell me, lady,” said Ramiro, as he leant over the form of the reviving Blanca, “how art thou? Assure me that I leave thee well and happy.” “Leave me not yet, noble Ramiro,” said Blanca sweetly. “How can I sufficiently repay thee for thy valiant protection?--all I can imagine would be too poor a recompense!” “Oh, not too poor, dear Blanca,” said Ramiro passionately, “is the gift thou canst bestow: give me thy love, if one who hath the stain of Moorish lineage may hope to deserve it, and I will bless the opportunity that gave thee to my arms.” Blanca only blushed in answer. She knew Ramiro had loved her long before, and that he was honoured and esteemed by her father. The lovers plighted their troth to each other that hour, and felt themselves worthy of one another.