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