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Roderick had put forth the most astonishing efforts for bringing together his soldiers
for the war; and as the numerous host defiled through the plains of Andalusia,
on their way to the seat of conflict, the soul of the tyrant forgot its fears and evil
forebodings, exulting in conviction of certain and complete conquest. The host
was beyond computation great, no less than fifty thousand horsemen, and a countless
multitude of foot covering the plain like an agitated sea. But it was not such
a host as the experienced man relies upon, and its very masses were unfriendly to
its celerity of progress and the concert of its action. Never had there been in Spain
the spectacle of such a multitude, and thus caparisoned. The luxury of the land
was more conspicuous than its power. The nobles of the Goth were clad in armor
better adapted to the uses of the spectacle and ceremonial than to those of battle—
better calculated for the bright eyes of damsels than for the wild buffets of sturdy
enemies. Art had expended all its fancies, and wealth all its materials, on this vain
foppery; and curiously adorned with gold and precious stones, with drooping plumes
and silken scarfs, and surcoats of brocade or velvet richly embroidered, the vainglorious
creatures of the court, prepared to undergo the toils and dangers of the camp
and field. They still possessed the spirit and courage of their sires, and this, perhaps,
was the redeeming aspect in their progress. They could meet the foe without
shrinking, and striking boldly if feebly, could in this manner die, if they could not
do, honorably. If the nobility were thus decorated with superfluous trappings, the
common multitude were wanting in the absolute necessaries of war. The politic
providence of Julian had stripped the kingdom, as we have seen, of the means necessary
for arming the people against sudden invasion. Lances and shields, and swords
and crossbows, might be seen among them, but without any uniformity of equipment
upon which so much of the success of an army, acting in masses, depends in
any encounter with a foe. Thousands were provided only with sling and stone,
with bill and bludgeon, and the ordinary implements of husbandry. They were
without a knowledge of war, and, lacking in discipline and arms, gave little promise
of that good service which the sanguine and eager spirit of Roderick anticipated at
their hands. They shared in some degree, however, the courage of their monarch,
and when he appeared at their head, mounted on his favorite charger, Orelia—a
noble form himself, clad in armor of burnished gold, and looking the emblematic
hero of his kingdom—their enthusiasm declared itself in a shout which rent the
firmament. Their courageous impulse encouraged their sovereign, and making them
a speech full of encouragement and of hope, he concluded with commanding their
instant march for the Xeres in compliance with the insidious counsel of the
Archbishop Oppas. This wily traitor had already contrived to establish secret but
regular communications with Count Julian, The latter was punctually apprised
of every movement in the camp of Roderick. Similar intelligence was conveyed to
the young Prince Pelayo, who was summoned with his little band of partisans to
descend from his mountain passes to the famous quarry which the usurper was
preparing for the stroke. Pelayo was not made acquainted with all the facts in the
history of Julian, which, by this time, were in possession of Oppas. They did not
revolt the latter, though he well knew that their revelation would produce such an
effect on the gallant and faithful prince, his nephew. To him the story came that
Julian had revolted in behalf of Egiza, his brother, or himself, the heirs of their
father, unrighteously slain by Roderick. That he should bring among his

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followers a small force of Arabs whom he had overcome, drawn to his service in Tingitania,
offered no reason for suspecting him. Glad of an opportunity at last to cross
weapons with the usurper with some prospect of effectual struggle, Pelayo readily
put his troops in motion for the purpose of forming a coalition with Julian against
Roderick, before the two armies could possibly meet on the banks of the Xeres.
At this place, and in the moment of greatest struggle, even while the battle raged,
the treacherous archbishop was to draw off his legions, and crossing to the side of
the invaders, return with fatal effect against the ranks which had counted on his
strength and assistance. Such was the cunning contrivance by which it was calculated
that the overwhelming masses of Roderick—overwhelming in spite of all
their inferiority of weapon and discipline—were to be foiled and overthrown. The
archbishop headed a select body of soldiers. They were attached to his cause with
a sort of personal attachment. His solicitude for a long time had been to bring
about this feeling. For this he had spared no means. Cajoling arts, kind offices,
and a liberal bounty, had won the hearts of their leaders, while other means of
a grosser nature—animal indulgencies and high wages—had effectually won to his
purposes the common people. The soldiers led by Pelayo were a hardy tribe of
mountaineers, a simple, virtuous race, unaccustomed to luxury, little ambitious,
and content with that poverty which they knew how to enjoy, as it seemed to secure
them the precious boon of liberty. Pelayo was the very leader for such a
people. He loved no silken couch, loathed with a strange dislike the voluptuous
effeminacies in which his order were wont to forget themselves and all the virtues
of becoming manhood, and, superior to all considerations of self, set before them
ever the example of a self-denying spirit, toiling only for the glory and safety of
his people. They believed equally in his valor and his virtues. Secure of both
in him, he was secure of their loyalty and adherence, and when he bade them descend
with him to the conflict with the usurper, they bounded up and went forth
as to a festival.

Little did Roderick dream of these dangers. Oppas, with an adroitness which
has distinguished the established priesthood in all periods, had wormed himself into
full confidence of the usurper. His counsel, urged indirectly, suggested frequently
rather than boldly declared, was that which Roderick prefered commonly to the
arguments of better men. He encouraged the rapid movements of the usurper
against the enemy, before his followers were provided with weapons, and in spite
of their obvious want of discipline. His argument was a specious one: “Shall we
wait,” he asked, “until the force of the Arabs, now small in numbers, shall be increased
by countless swarms from the desert? Already they begin to pour in upon
us, and we must crush them speedily, if we would not do battle with all Almagreb!”
The impetuous nature of Roderick readily sympathized with this seemingly wise
but really injudicious counsel, which Oppas rendered more palatable still by insisting
upon the great ease with which their myriads could be overthrown. He spoke
with scorn of their numbers and their skill, and by adroit flatteries, so wrought upon
the spirit of the king that he longed for nothing so much as the encounter with a
foe, from whom, according to the voice of prophecy, he had everything to dread.
The artifices of Oppas did not stop here. We have already seen in previous pages
the glimpses of a passion which he felt—a passion perhaps more criminal than
any other that worked within his bosom as it meditated injury to the most unoffending
innocence—for the person of the beautiful spouse of the usurper—the meek
and gentle Egilona. It was the hope of Oppas to secure this victim in the course
of those events which his artful counsel was now hurrying forward. He promptly
availed himself of the suggest on of the innocent and dutiful wife, herself, to

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promote his passionate devices. “Why,” said she, “should I not follow my lord in
this march of peril? Why should I not be near him in the hour of danger? Too
well I know that his fearless spirit will bear him where the strife is thickest—that
he will rush to the embrace of war, and grow mad with rapture in the dreadful
glory of the flashing spear and scymitar. Verily, it is but meet that I should be
near him in this peril, that I may tend upon him should he suffer hurt—which Jesu
forbid—dress the wounds of his limbs, and sooth his weariness with my cares,
and console him after his toils by the song and story which he so much loves.”

“It is thy duty, daughter, that thou shouldst thus attend thy lord. Thy thought
becomes thee. It were pitiful if he should be wounded and alone, needing succor
and soothing which thou mayst bestow—and thou absent here reposing on thy
couch, little heeding of his wants and sorrows.”

“Ah! father, I thank thee from the bottom of my heart for this sanction. I have
already spoken of it to my lord, but he chides me for the thought. Thou shalt help
me in my quest. Thou shalt speak to my lord, and show him what is needful for
me to do, and to desire, and what is but right and generous in him to grant. Wilt
thou not do this, holy father—I pray thee to serve me in this wise, for well I know
that thy counsel is of all others most grateful to my lord.”

“Verily, daughter, thou art a pattern of virtue and duty. The sex is honored
in thee, and the church glories in thy faith. How rightly dost thou see these
things. Where should the wife be, in the peril of her husband, but by his side?
I would not have thee share in his danger, for that becomes not thy feebleness of
sex; but there are duties in which thou art strong, and these are particularly needed
of thee to exercise. Daughter, I will speak to thy lord in thy behalf.”

“Oh, father, how shall I thank thee?”

“Thanks, dearest daughter of the church, it needs not. It needs but duty only.
Verily, the heavens smile upon thee, and thy virtues will greatly serve against the
too erring and too vicious nature of thy lord. Thou art precious, my child, in the
sight of heaven. Thou remindest me in thy meekness and loving-kindness of those
accepted women which made lovely and secure the tents of the ancient patriarchs.
Be thus, ever, my daughter, and the smiles of the Virgin shall give thee countenance
and protection in the moment of thy greatest need.”

Thus speaking, while the royal lady knelt with uncovered head before him, his
paternal hand rested on her neck, and, unconsciously, as it were, glided into her
bosom, the heaving billows of which were swelling with a sense of pleasure at
the terms of commendation which she heard from one in whom she was accustomed
to behold the visible agent, and almost the only means of communication
with her Saviour and her God. She felt no distrust of that patriarchal pressure
which was yet not without its influence upon other sensibilities than those which
belonged to her devotions. How should she dream to find the wolf in the shepherd!
The pure heart, unconscious of guilt itself, not easily suspects the secret
guilt in the souls and thoughts of others. The meek submissive woman, untrained
and inexperienced in the strifes of the brutal world, is slow to fancy cunning or
deceit in those minds upon which society itself commands that she shall RELY.
And thus it was that the pure-souled Egilona knelt before the lascivious and abandoned
priest, submissive, while his polluting hands, made authoritative by his patriarchal
mission, presumed upon freedoms with the person of the innocent and lovely,
which are permitted by heaven to the sacred rites of wedlock only.

Very difficult was it for the bold and impious Oppas to tear himself away from
the exercise of his audaciously assumed privileges. She, the meek and virtuous
woman, knelt still, immovable as beneath a spell, looking down upon the earth,

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and submitting, as she fancied, to a benediction which was to secure her the special
favor of the Mother of the Lamb. The wolf in sheep's clothing tore himself away
at last. His hands lifted her from the ground, and rested still upon her snow-white
neck and bosom, while pressing his burning lips upon her cheeks. This was all
apostolical only, in the humble and unsuspecting thoughts of the woman—for a purer
heart than that of Egilona never beat within mortal breast.

To Roderick, Oppas urged the wishes of Egilona—and his own—but with a
different argument. To the fearless man he justified the presence—not of the queen
only, but of the court—on the ground that there was no danger. “Shall these
infidels thus affright us with their crescents? Are these barbaric drums so terrible
in our ears, that we must needs keep them from the ears of our women? Is there
no valor among your nobles that they dread lest the ladies whom they serve should
see them as they go into conflict. I tell thee, Roderick, if thou wouldst have thy
young warriors do famous service, let them be seen of the young maidens of the
court.” And the subtle priest then made some familiar farm-yard allusions to the
effect upon the courage of the male bird, of the presence of the female.

“Verily, my Lord Oppas,” said Roderick, with a merry visage, “thou hadst
been a better soldier than a priest—albeit, thou hast some of the rarest attributes
for the priesthood also. Thou hast a tongue to wheedle Satan himself out of his
prey—and, I tell thee, I half suspect thee of a warmer passion for the sex than
thou hast for the surplice and the altar. Thou canst not cheat me, lord bishop. I
know thee, if the church does not. But thou art right in this. Shall these scurvy
sons of Ismael make us afraid? Shall there be no more smiles—no more sunshine
because of their moons? By Bacchus, I will it otherwise. Egilona shall be with
us and the court. We shall have all the dames of beauty and of grace, to see that
we are not wanting in the spirit to defend them. Our young nobles shall do
battle in their sight, and well I know there will be no cowardice—no skulking
then.”

There were other counsels among the veterans, but those of the archbishop prevailed,
and when he bore the grateful intelligence to Egilona, his wild passions rejoiced
in the renewed exercise of his patriarchal privileges. Once more his lips
were pressed upon her cheek and forehead—once more his audacious fingers rested
upon her neck, or lifted, in a seemingly wandering mood, the tresses of her silken
hair; and evil were the triumphant thoughts which kindled into burning tumult
the blood mounting to his brain, as he rushed in imagination over the brief interval
between that moment and the day when the woman at his feet was to be widowed
by his unbridled passions.