Part 21

“Don’t you suppose there is a Moorish castle somewhere around here that we could capture, and so get plenty to eat?” he inquired of his sister. “That is what the Cid was always finding. Don’t you remember how nicely he got into Alcacer and slew eleven Infidel knights, and found ever so much gold and things to eat? This is what he said, you know:

“‘On, on, my knights, and smite the foe! And falter not, I pray; For by the grace of God, I trow, The town is ours this day!’”

“O Pedro, dear, why will you think so much of things to eat,” groaned Theresa. “Do you not know that to be hungry is one way to be a martyr. And besides, it is, I doubt not, our just punishment for having taken any thing to eat without letting mother know. We must suffer and be strong, little brother.”

“That’s just like a girl,” cried Pedro, a trifle scornfully. “How can we be strong if we suffer? I can’t, I know.”

But before Theresa could enter upon an explanation of this most difficult problem--one that has troubled many older heads than little Pedro’s,--both the children started in surprise, and then involuntarily shrunk closer to the dark gray rock in whose shadow they were resting. For there, not a hundred yards distant, coming around a turn in the road, was one of the very Infidels they had come out to meet and conquer, or be martyred by.

He was a rather imposing-looking but not a formidable old man. His cloak or mantle of brown stuff was worn and ragged, his turban was quite as dingy, but the long white beard that fell upon his breast made his swarthy face look even fiercer than it really was, and the stout staff, with which he helped himself over the uneven road, seemed to the little crusaders some terrible weapon of torture and of martyrdom.

But Pedro was a valiant little fellow after all. The fighting spirit of his father the Don burned within him, and few little folks of seven know what caution is. He whispered to his sister, whose hand he had at first clutched in terror, a word of assurance.

“Be not afraid, sister mine,” he said. “Yonder comes the Infidel we have gone forth to find. Do you suppose he has a whole great army following him? Hold up your crucifix, and I will strike him with my sword. The castle can’t be far away, and perhaps we can conquer this old Infidel and find a good dinner in his castle. That ‘s just what the Cid would have done. You know what he said:

“‘Far from our land, far from Castile We here are banished; If with the Moors we battle not, I wot we get no bread.’

Let us battle with him at once.”

And before his sister with restraining hand, could hold him back the plucky young crusader flourished his sword furiously and charged down upon the old Moor, who now in turn started in surprise and drew aside from the path of the determined little warrior.

“Now yield thee, yield thee, pagan prince. Or die in crimson gore; I am Ruy Diaz of Bivar, The Cid Campeador!”

shouted the little crusader, charging against his pagan enemy at a furious rate.

“O spare him, spare my brother, noble emir. Let me die in his stead,” cried the terrified Theresa, not quite so confident now as to the pleasure of martyrdom.

The old man stretched out his staff and stopped the headlong dash of the boy. Then laying a hand lightly on his assailant’s head he looked smilingly toward Theresa.

“Neither prince nor emir am I, Christian maiden,” he said, “but the poor Morisco Abd-el-’Aman of Cordova, seeking my son Ali, who, men say, is servant to a family in Valladolid. Pray you if you have aught to eat give some to me, for I am famishing.”

This was not exactly martyrdom; it was, in fact, quite the opposite, and the little Theresa was puzzled as to her duty in the matter. Pedro, however, was not at all undecided.

“Give our bread and cake to a nasty old Moor?” he cried; “I should say we will not, will we, sister? We need it for ourselves. Besides, what dreadful thing is it that the Holy Inquisition does to people who succor the infidel Moors?”

Theresa shuddered. She knew too well all the stories of the horrible punishments that the Holy Office, known as the Inquisition of Spain, visited upon those who harbored Jews or aided the now degraded Moors. For so complete had been the conquest of the once proud possessors of Southern Spain, that they were usually known only by the contemptuous title of “Moriscoes,” and were despised and hated by their “chivalrous” Christian conquerors.

But little Theresa de Cepeda was of so loving and generous a nature that even the plea of an outcast and despised Morisco moved her to pity. From her earliest childhood she had delighted in helpful and generous deeds. She repeatedly gave away, so we are told, all her pocket-money in charity, and any sign of trouble or distress found her ready and anxious to extend relief. There was really a good deal of the angelic in little Theresa, and even the risk of arousing the wrath of the Inquisition, the walls of whose gloomy dungeon in Avila she had, so often looked upon with awe, could not withhold her from wishing to help this poor old man who was hunting for his lost son.

“Nay, brother,” she said to little Pedro, “it can be not so very great a crime to give food to a starving man”; and much to Pedro’s disgust, she opened the wallet and emptied their little store of provisions into the old beggar’s hand.

“And wither are ye bound, little ones?” asked this “tramp” of the long ago, as the children watched their precious dinner disappear behind his snowy beard.

“We are on a crusade, don Infidel,” replied Pedro, boldly. “A crusade against your armies and castles, perhaps to capture them, and thus gain the crown of martyrdom.”

The old Moor looked at them sadly. “There is scarce need for that, my children,” he said. “My people are but slaves; their armies and their castles are lost; their beautiful cities are ruined, and there is neither conquest nor martyrdom for Christian youths and maidens to gain among them. Go home, my little ones, and pray to Allah that you and yours may never know so much of sorrow and of trouble as do the poor Moriscoes of Spain this day.”

This was news to Theresa. No martyrdom to be obtained among the Moors? Where then was all the truth of her mother’s romances,--where was all the wisdom of her father’s savage faith? She had always supposed that the Moors were monsters and djins, waiting with great fires and racks and sharpest cimeters to put to horrible death all young Christians who came amongst them, and now here was one who begged for bread and pleaded for pity like any common beggar of Avila. Evidently something was wrong in the home stories.

As for little Pedro, he waxed more valiant as the danger lessened. He whetted his toy sword against the granite rocks and looked savagely at the old man.

“You have eaten all my bread, don Infidel,” he said, “and now you would lie about your people and your castles. You are no beggar; you are the King of Cordova come here in this disguise to spy out the Christian’s land. I know all about you from my mother’s stories. So you must die. I shall send your head to our Emperor by my sister here, and when he shall ask her who has done this noble deed she will say, just as did Alvar Fanez to King Alfonso:

‘My Cid Campeador, O king, it was who girded brand: The Paynim king he hath o’ercome, the mightiest in the land Plenteous and sovereign is the spoil he from the Moor hath won; This portion, honored king and lord, he sendeth to your throne.’