A knight named Bristes, cousin of the recreant Melias, was challenger and accuser on this occasion, and was quickly despatched by the doughty Favila. In the meantime the ark containing Pelayo, the infant child of Doña Luz and her champion, had reached Alcantara, where the little passenger almost miraculously fell into the hands of his mother’s other uncle, Grafeses. This benevolent prince took every care of the child, unsuspicious, of course, of his origin. Attracted to Court by the noise of these scandals and combats, he found a handkerchief in his niece’s room, the counterpart of one which he had discovered in the little ark. Doña Luz soon confessed to him the whole story, and he endeavoured to intercede for her with the king. Egica, probably more exasperated than ever, insisted on a third duel between Favila and a knight called Longaris. Both combatants had been wounded when a holy hermit appeared on the scene, and admonished the king as to his wickedness and hardness of heart. Egica repented and consented to the public celebration of the marriage of Favila and Doña Luz. Here we have a fine romantic account of the origin of the heroic Pelayo, the restorer of the monarchy and the saviour of the Spanish nation. Wilder, more romantic still, and better known are the legends clustering round the last king of the Goths. The scene of most of these is laid in Toledo. Here was held that wonderful tournament, to which resorted all the crowned heads of Europe--aye, even such potentates as the Emperor of Constantinople and the King of Poland. A new city of palaces was reared in the Vega by the hospitable Roderic to accommodate his fifty thousand noble guests. This splendid function may have taken place before or after the king’s strange marriage with the bewitching Moorish princess Elyata (re-baptized Exilona), who had been washed ashore by the sea on the coast of Valencia. Lovely as was his consort, Roderic did not, as we all know, remain faithful to her. Here enters the mournful and very shadowy figure of Florinda, otherwise known as La Cava. This peerless damsel was confided to the care of the king by her father, the trusty Julian (or Illán), governor of Ceuta. Alas for the maiden! while bathing in the Tagus, her charms were only too well revealed to Roderic, gazing from his palace windows on the cliff above. A glimpse of a shapely leg scarce concealed by a diaphanous mantle decided the fate of Florinda--and of Spain. What he could not effect by persuasion, the king effected by violence. Perhaps he hoped that the proud Julian’s daughter would keep silence as to her own dishonour. He was mistaken. A trusty page, spurring night and day, quickly bore the fatal tidings to the father at distant Ceuta, and the missive in which the wronged Florinda implored vengeance on her betrayer.