Chapter XXVII: Don Diego Laynez and the Conde de Gormez

I wonder if Burgos looked then as it does now?--a well-washed, trim little city, Dutch in its neatness, tinted, upon the principle of Joseph’s coat of many colours, pink, blue, peach, and yellow; each house totally unlike its neighbour in height and shape; the streets sprouting out all over with balconies, _miradores_, and low arcades under flat roofs, an unexpected Gothic tower or barbican breaking through; entered by the ancient gate of Santa Maria beside the bridge with castellated bartizans and statues of notables in flat square niches.

Of the Cathedral I say nothing, because the present one was built later by Fernando el Santo, but the line of towers of the Gothic castle stood out darkly prominent on the hill behind--Calle Alta, as it was called--as old as 300; the fortress and residence of the Condes de Castila, and the place where the bright-faced Fernan Gonzales lived his merry life, shutting up his prisoners--Garcia, King of Navarre, Doña Ava’s treacherous father, for a year, and other kings and queens too numerous to mention,--with celebrations of royal births and marriages a score; the old church of Sant’ Agueda, an “_Iglesia juradera_” (church of purgation), on the brow of the hill, the family _posada_, or house of the Cid, to be seen to this day, the ancestral shields hung outside on pedestals forming part of the front, setting forth the quarterings of Laynez Calvo, of ancient Castilian lineage, the father of the Cid; a priceless old _Suelo_, on which you can still observe the measure of the Cid’s arm, marked on marble; and the mouth of a mediæval passage through which he could ride into the plains with his men without being seen by the citizens in the streets below.

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At this moment “the child of Burgos,” as the Cid is called, has thrown aside his warlike accoutrements, having been present at a council at the Ayuntamiento presided over by the king, and is now on his way to visit his lady love, Doña Ximena, the daughter of the Conde de Gormez.

As he passes along the Calle, gay as a butterfly in the bright sunshine, under the barbicans and towers which so nobly break the lines, it may be said he has too much of a swagger in his gait, but he has reason to be proud, for, young as he is, Doña Ximena loves him, and the good old King Fernando has admitted him to his council because he is already strong in arms and of _good custom_.

Just as Don Rodrigo has passed out of the Palace of Ayuntamiento (town hall) in the great plaza, its front honeycombed with sculptured cornices, badges, and devices on a warmly tinted stone, two _hidalgos_ appear under the arched doorway talking loud.

“I tell you the king does wrong,” the younger man is saying in a loud voice--no other than the Conde Don Gormez, with flashing eyes, moving with a haughty swagger, a tall olive-complexioned Castilian in cap and plume, laced boots, and ample cloak, “very wrong in affronting the Emperor of Germany and the Pope in a little state like Castile.”

“The king does right,” answers the other, very determinedly, but in a feebler voice, for he is stricken in years. “What, Conde Don Gormez, would you have Castile do? Become bounden to a foreign power, when we have so lately gained our freedom from Leon?”

“I think the matter ill-considered,” is the reply; “but of course you approve it, Don Diego Laynez. The king is old and foolish, and loves age and infirmity about him. No one exceeds you now in arrogance, since your young son Rodrigo sits by you at the council. He is reported of good courage against the Moors, but his youth makes him incompetent to advise the king.”

“Conde Gormez,” answers the other, reddening with anger, “your indiscreet words prove that it is not age or experience which gives judgment.”

“What do you mean, Don Diego?” asks the

Conde fiercely. “I allow no observations on my conduct.”

“I do not condescend to fathom it,” is the answer, with a contemptuous glance. “Jealousy and thirst for power----”

“Take that, old fool,” cried the Conde, silencing him with a sounding blow on the cheek, which made him reel backwards against the wall.

He could not speak, all his passion had vanished in the humiliation of being struck. White and tottering he stood, while his trembling hand sought the hilt of his sword.

“Mother of God!” he said at last, “you had better have finished me altogether than put this insult on me. Is it that you deem my arm so weak you mock me, Sir Count?” And as he spoke, with difficulty he drew his sword.

“Perhaps it is,” replies the other with an insolent laugh. “Put up your weapon, old man, or worse may come to you.”

“No, no,” returns Don Diego, the colour mounting to his cheek as his fingers feel the temper of the blade; “as knight to knight, who have so often stood side by side in battle, I demand a fair fight and no quarter.”

“As you will,” he answers, and an evil fire comes into his eyes. “It is a favour which, at your age, you have no right to demand. If you desire to be spitted, I will oblige you all the same.”

And then and there he drew his rapier, and placed himself in a posture of defence.

But the combat was too unequal. It lasted but a few minutes. The Conde de Gormez was the first _espadero_ in Castile, in the flower of his age, graceful, skilful, strong; Don Diego was old and weak. His blows fell like water on his stalwart adversary, who treated him as one does a wayward child.

“Mark you,” he said at last, throwing up Don Diego’s sword, “I spare your life. Go home, you dotard, and teach your son to hold his tongue before his betters and learn to be a wiser man.”

With that he sheathed his formidable weapon, turned his back, and with a quick step disappeared.