He looked for the brave captains that led the hosts of Spain, But all were fled except the dead, and who could count the slain? Where'er his eye could wander, all bloody was the plain, And while thus he said, the tears he shed ran down his cheeks like rain: "Last night I was the King of Spain--to-day no king am I; Last night fair castles held my train--to-night where shall I lie? Last night a hundred pages did serve me on the knee-- To-night not one I call my own--not one pertains to me. O luckless, luckless was the hour, and cursed was the day, When I was born to have the power of this great seniory! Unhappy me, that I should see the sun go down to-night! O Death, why now so slow art thou, why fearest thou to smite?"[5] So runs the old Spanish ballad; but the fate of Roderick has remained a mystery to this day. His horse and sandals were found on the river bank the day after the battle; but his body was not with them. Doubtless he was drowned and washed out to the great ocean. But the Spaniards would not believe this. They clothed the dead king with a holy mystery which assuredly did not enfold him when alive. They made the last of the Goths into a legendary saviour like King Arthur, and believed that he would come again from his resting-place in some ocean isle, healed of his wound, to lead the Christians once more against the infidels. In the Spanish legends, Roderick spent the rest of his life in pious acts of penance, and was slowly devoured by snakes in punishment for the sins he had committed, until at last his crime was washed out, "the body's pang had spared the spirit's pain," and "Don Rodrigo" was suffered to depart to the peaceful isle, whence his countrymen long awaited his triumphant return. [Illustration] [Illustration] II. THE WAVE OF CONQUEST.