While these exciting events were in progress in one quarter of the field, what
was the fate of Roderick, and whither did his footsteps tend? With the vindictive
shouts of Julian ringing in his ears, conscience-stricken, he urged his noble steed—
the good steed Orelia, of which tradition has deemed it not beneath its care to preserve
some pleasing memorials for posterity—to the utmost powers of limb and
muscle, in the fond hope of escaping from the avenger. But, as eagerly as he fled
did the father of the unhappy Cava pursue. His instincts were all aroused and
unerring in the chase, and while the feet of Orelia were laving themselves in the
edges of the Guadalete, some seven miles from the field of battle, the steed of
Count Julian came thundering down the banks. The oozy surface of the marsh
on the sides of the river deceived the unhappy Roderick. Orelia, striving with
generous effort, in obedience to the voice and spur of the rider, became entangled
in the sedge and mire at the perilous moment, and, compelled to abandon her, Roderick
leapt from the saddle to the shore, only to meet with the avenger. Julian was
not the first to encounter with the fugitive monarch. This was a fortune reserved
to a valiant Moor, the captain of a select body of Bedouin horse, named Maguel
el Rami. Their weapons were already opposed, when, hot with haste, weary from
hard riding and fighting, and feeble from several wounds, Julian of Consuegra
dashed between them, and struck their swords asunder.

“God! how I thank thee that he lives,” was the first exclamation of the panting
sire! “Moor!” said he, turning to Maguel el Rami, “hadst thou slain him by thy
unwitting sword, all Barbary had not saved thee from my wrath. Away! choose
thee out other victims—leave this to me!”

He was obeyed! The Moor was in a moment out of sight.

“Roderick!” said Julian, “how I rejoice me thou dost survive this hour—that
thou livest to satisfy, however poorly, the hungry passion of revenge which is consuming
within my heart.”

“Slave!” cried Roderick, with a show of scorn and confidence which he did not
feel—“I am still thy king.”

“King! to be sure thou art! a king still—but none of mine! It is a part of my
rejoicing that I slay in thee a sovereign. The memory of Cava, her bloody wrongs,
call for no less a sacrifice. I would not rob thee of a single dignity. Nay, were
the passion of my heart once satisfied—could this thing be possible—I would restore
thee to thy power—restore myself again to Spain—and all for one small boon
which thou hast to bestow.”

“And that!” demanded Roderick, somewhat eagerly, deceived by the suddenly
subdued tones of the apostate, and the calm and, as he fancied, the gentle expression
of his eye. Roderick began to flatter himself with new hopes. He began

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to think that Julian might possibly relent—might be bought off with new dignities
and treasures, and employ his power in repairing the injuries he had done to his
country. He built something upon the remorse of the apostate—

“What is that, Julian?” he repeated, as the other remained silent a moment too
long for his eager hopes—“What is that?”

“Thy blood! thy blood!—no petty drops—no small tribute, tyrant! idly drawn
to show me that thou hast blood in warm and ruddy veins. No! I must rend thy
heart from its black caverns! watch its pulsations—note where it beats most
quickly and with most life, and there execute my vengeance with keen steel—vexed
that so poor a vengeance, after all, must atone to me for my crushed honor, and
the tortured innocence of my child! Art thou prepared for this? Art thou ready
for thy death?”

“I am no coward, Julian!”

“Would I prate with thee, knew I not this? Hadst thou been, the Moor should
have despatched thee in my sight.”

“Julian!” said Roderick, “I have wronged thee deeply—sorely have I repented
of this wrong—sorely has my kingdom suffered from it, and I stand here ready to
await the issue of thy sword in the encounter. But what had thy country done to
thee, that thou must gore her with thy cruel weapon? What had these children
of the soil—these poor herdlings—the women and the children of the land—that
thou shouldst bring the wolf into the fold, and ravage the cities of thy people with
the havoc of the African?”

“That is the pang and the shame which thou must answer,” said Julian, with
the agony of hell speaking in his visage. “Thou hast spoken soothly. Thinkest
thou I feel nothing of my shame?—that I loathe not my own crime in this? But
it is thy crime, Roderick—it must be revenged on both of us. Come on! I look
not to survive this struggle. I am faint with many wounds, but thee I must slay!
That I feel and know. Thy doom is on the record! Prepare thee! This hour I
give thee to the sword!”

“I am ready! I will fight thee, Julian, to the last—yet not deny heaven's justice
if I fight with thee in vain.”

Fierce and terrible was the conflict. As if conscious of all his danger, Roderick
put on all his coolness and courage. He strove with moderate arm, simply at defence,
and his prudence baffled that of the avenger. The sword of Julian was smitten
asunder in the struggle. He stood weaponless before his foe. His battle-axe
was left upon his saddle bow. He looked aghast upon his enemy. In that one
moment Roderick forgot his caution.

“I am safe, Julian! Thou art unarmed, and at my mercy!”

“Traitor and tyrant, in thy teeth thou liest! No! Thou art at mine!”

At the risk of a fearful wound, which took effect upon his shoulder in a deep
gash, and upon his neck in a slight one, Julian closed in with his victim, grappled
him about the waist with a single arm, and with the hand of the other plucked the
dagger from the belt of Roderick, and struck with it, once, twice, thrice, to the very
heart of the monarch. This done, he flung him from his grasp—writhing and
gasping in a mortal agony upon the sands.

“This to thee, Cava! my child! This to thee, Frandina, the mother of my child!
And thou!—”

He turned to look upon Roderick. The eyes of the king were already glazed in
death. He himself sunk upon the ground, even as he gazed upon his victim.

“It is over! My limbs fail me! My strength. But it has sufficed. I have
lived long enough. My task is ended. Yet! that pang! that agony! It is here!

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a dreadful fire in my brain!—Spain! Spain!—it is for thee I burn! Thou wilt
curse me! curse me with thy homes made desolate—thy fields ravaged—thy people
in captivity. A fearful vision grows up before my sight—the vision of a terrible
future from thy enemies and mine. Spare my eyes this spectacle of blood.
Ha! it is she! Does she reproach!—my child—my Cava! It was for thee—for
thee only that I wrought. Alas! and thou deniest me! thou! thou!—”

He raved. His form writhed beside that of Roderick. He grappled it with his
hands. His eyes swam. He no longer saw the objects around him, or he saw
them indistinctly. His hand still grasped the dagger with which he had given the
fatal blow to his enemy, and as the conviction was renewed in his mind that it was
still his enemy that he grappled, he smote again, once, twice, thrice, even as before
when he had slain him; then sinking back, he shrieked as with a shuddering and
terrible agony. His dying senses caught the sounds of approaching persons—the
heavy tread of cavalry. Voices reached his ears.

“Who comes?” he demanded, feebly striving to rise and look around him.

“What is here?” said one. “This surely is Roderick, the Goth. And here is
the royal robes and the crown.”

“That voice!” exclaimed the dying man: “Is it not Pelayo, son of Witiza,
whom I hear?”

“It is!” replied the speaker. “Who art thou?”

“Look on me!”

“Julian!”

“Ay! and nothing. Thy brother—he who loved my daughter—he sleeps by
Cueta. I saved him from this day. Thou, Pelayo, art the rightful king in Spain.
Save her from the Africans. My prince, place thy sword before me, that I may
behold the cross ere I perish. Give it me—in my hands. Give!—give!”

“There! seize it quickly—press it to thy lips. It is thy last refuge!”

“Jesu! mercy!”

In these words the spirit passed. The young prince knelt over the corse in
prayer, while his followers, lifting the crown of Roderick from the earth where it
lay, placed it upon the brows of Pelayo. The sky then rang with their unanimous
shouts as they proclaimed, in a burst of popular enthusiasm, “Pelayo! King of
Spain!” He proved himself deserving of the title, and became the real founder of
that marvellous race, whose deeds in after centuries, in Europe and America, were
among the greatest marvels of human performance. His power did not suffice to
expel the Arabs from his country, but he prepared the way for their final expulsion,
and preserved the sacred fires of liberty, secure from extinction, in the wild
passes of the Asturian mountains.

Pelayo gazed upon the body of Roderick with melancholy contemplation.

“He was the deadly enemy of my home and country. To him we owe the
dreadful desolation of this field. But let not the brows which have worn the
crown of the Goth, be subject to the indignity of barbarian hoofs. Lift him upon
your shoulders, my friends, and let the Xeres bear him to the sea!”

It was done, and vainly did Taric el Tuerto look for the royal victim. The
gory head of a noble Gothic cavalier, whose features resembled those of Roderick,
was sent, as a sufficient trophy, to the Caliph at Damascus, while the deep waters
which could not hide the history and the shame, effectually kept from indignity the
person of the “Last King of the Goths!”