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.
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