d 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.'

"So, King of Cordova, bend down and let me cut off your head."

The "King of Cordova" made no movement of compliance to this gentle
invitation, and the head-strong Pedro, springing toward him, would have
caught him by the beard, had not his gentle sister restrained him.

"I do believe he is no king, my Pedro," she said, "but only, as he says,
a poor Morisco beggar. Let us rather try to help him. He hath no castles
I am sure, and as for his armies----"

"His armies! there they come; look, sister!" cried little Pedro,
breaking into his sister's words; "now will you believe me?" and
following his gaze, Theresa herself st