as crusaders on their own accounts, and lose their lives but save their
souls as martyrs among the Moors.

The suggestion had all the effect of novelty to the little Pedro, and
while he did not altogether relish the idea of losing his life among the
Moors, still the possibility of a change presented itself with all the
attractions that the thought of trying something new always has for
children. Besides, he had great respect for his sister's judgment.

"Well, let us be crusaders," he said, "and perhaps we need not be
martyrs, sister. I don't think that would be so very pleasant, do
you? Who knows; perhaps we may be victorious crusaders and conquer the
Infidels just as did Ruy Diaz the Cid.(1) See here, Theresa; I have my
sword and you can take your cross, and we can have such a nice crusade,
and may be the infidel Moors will run away from us just as they did from
the Cid and leave us their cities and their gold and treasure? Don't you
remember what mother read us, how the Cid won Castelon, with its silver
and its gold?"

(1) The Cid was the great hero of Spanish romance. The stories of his
valor have been the joy of Spaniards, old and young, for centuries. Cid
is a corruption of the Moorish word seyd or said, and means master.

And the little fellow spouted most valiantly this portion of the famous
poem of the exploits of the Cid (the Poema del Cid), with the martial
spirit of which stirring rhyme his romantic mother had filled her
children:

"Smite, smite, my knights, for mercy's sake--on boldly to the
war;
I am Ruy Diaz of Bivar, the Cid Campeador!
Three hundred lances then were couched, with pennons
streaming gay;
Three hundred shields were pierced through--no steel the
shock might stay;--
Three hundred hauberks were torn off in that encounter sore;
Three hundred snow-white pennons were crimson-dyed in
gore;
Three hundred chargers wandered loose--their lords were
overthrown;
The Christians cry 'St. James for Spain!' the Moormen
cry 'Mahoun!'"

Theresa applauded her little brother's eloquent recitation, and thought
him a very smart boy; but she said rather sadly: "I fear me it will not
be that way, my Pedro; for martyrdom means, as mother has told us, the
giving up of our life rather than bow to the false faith of the Infidel,
and thus to save our souls and have a crown of glory."

"The crown would be very nice, I suppose, sister," said practical young