"And wither are ye bound, little ones?" asked this "tramp" of the
long ago, as the children watched their precious dinner disappear
behind his snowy beard.
"We are on a crusade, don Infidel," replied Pedro, boldly. "A
crusade against your armies and castles, perhaps to capture them,
and thus gain the crown of martyrdom."
The old 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.
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