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　　SELECTIONS FROM THE POEM OF THE CID.

　　COUNT RAYMOND AND MY CID.

　　After one of the victories over the Moors won by the Cid after his banishment by King Alfonso, he despatched a messenger to the king with a gift of thirty horses, and while awaiting his return, encamped in the Pine-wood of Tebar and levied tribute on the surrounding country. This information was conveyed to the Count of Barcelona, Raymond Berenger, who prepared to march against the intruder.

　　Great mustering there is of Moors and Christians through the land,

　　A mighty host of men-at-arms he hath at his command.

　　Two days, three nights, they march to seek the Good One of Bivar,

　　To snare him where he harbors in the Pine-wood of Tebar;

　　And such the speed of their advance, that, cumbered with his spoils,

　　And unaware, my Cid wellnigh was taken in the toils.

　　The tidings reached my Cid as down the sierra side he went,

　　Then straightway to Count Raymond be a friendly message sent:

　　"Say to the count that he, meseems, to me no grudge doth owe:

　　Of him I take no spoil, with him in peace I fain would go."

　　"Nay," said the count, "for all his deeds he hath to make amends:

　　This outlaw must be made to know whose honor he offends."

　　With utmost speed the messenger Count Raymond's answer brought;

　　Then of a surety knew my Cid a battle must be fought.

　　"Now, cavaliers," "h he, "make safe the booty we have won.

　　Look to your weapons, gentlemen; with speed your armor don.

　　On battle bent Count Raymond comes; a mighty host hath he

　　Of Moors and Christians; fight we must if hence we would go free.

　　Here let us fight our battle out, since fight we must perforce.

　　On with your harness, cavaliers, quick saddle, and to horse!

　　Yonder they come, the linen breeks, all down the mountain side,

　　For saddles they have Moorish pads, with slackened girths they ride:

　　Our saddles are Galician make, our leggings tough and stout:

　　A hundred of us gentlemen should scatter such a rout.

　　Before they gain the level plain, home with the lance charge we,

　　And then, for every blow we strike, we empty saddles three.

　　Count Raymond Berenger shall know with whom he has to do;

　　And dearly in Tebar to-day his raid on me shall rue."

　　In serried squadron while he speaks they form around my Cid.

　　Each grasps his lance, and firm and square each sits upon his steed.

　　Over against them down the hill they watch the Franks descend,

　　On to the level ground below, where plain and mountain blend.

　　Then gives my Cid the word to charge—with a good will they go:

　　Fast ply the lances; some they pierce, and some they overthrow.

　　And he that in a good hour was born soon hath he won the field;

　　And the Count Raymond Berenger he hath compelled to yield;

　　And reaping honor for his beard a noble prize hath made:

　　A thousand marks of silver worth, the great Colada blade.

　　Unto his quarters under guard the captive count he sent,

　　While his men haste to gather in their spoils in high content.

　　Then for my Cid Don Roderick a banquet they prepare;

　　But little doth Count Raymond now for feast or banquet care.

　　They bring him meat and drink, but he repels them with disdain.

　　"No morsel will I touch," said he, "for all the wealth of Spain.

　　Let soul and body perish now; life why should I prolong,

　　Conquered and captive at the hands of such an ill-breeched throng?"

　　"Nay," said my Cid; "take bread and wine; eat, and thou goest free;

　　If not, thy realms in Christendom thou never more shalt see."

　　"Go thou, Don Roderick," said the Count, "eat if thou wilt, but I

　　Have no more lust for meat and drink: I only crave to die."

　　Three days, while they the booty share, for all that they entreat,

　　The Count his purpose holds unchanged, refusing still to eat.

　　Then said my Cid, "I pray thee, Count, take food and trust to me;

　　Thyself and two knights of thy train I promise to set free."

　　Glad was Count Raymond in his heart when he the promise heard—

　　"A marvel that will be, my Cid, if thou dost keep thy word."

　　"Then, Count, take food, and when I see thy hunger satisfied,

　　My word is pledged to let thee go, thyself and two beside.

　　But understand, one farthing's worth I render not again

　　Of what has been in battle lost and won on yonder plain.

　　I give not back the lawful spoils I fairly win in fight;

　　But for mine own and vassals' wants I hold them as my right.

　　My followers are needy men; I cannot if I would;

　　For spoil from thee and others won is all our livelihood.

　　And such, while God's good will it is, must be our daily life,

　　As outcasts forced to wander, with an angry king at strife."

　　With lighter heart Count Raymond called for water for his hands,

　　And then with his two gentlemen, sent by the Cid's commands,

　　He blithely sat him down to meat: God! with what gust ate he!

　　And glad was the Campeador such heartiness to see.

　　"h he, "Until thou eat thy fill we part not, Count, to-day."

　　"Nor loth am I," Count Raymond said, "such bidding to obey."

　　So he and his two cavaliers a hearty meal they made:

　　It pleased my Cid to watch his hands, how lustily they played.

　　"Now if thou wilt," Count Raymond said, "that we are satisfied,

　　Bid them to lead the horses forth, that we may mount and ride.

　　Never since I have been a Count have I yet broken fast

　　With such a relish; long shall I remember this repast."

　　Three palfreys with caparisons of costly sort they bring,

　　And on the saddles robes of fur and mantles rich they fling.

　　Thus, with a knight on either hand, away Count Raymond rides;

　　While to the outposts of the camp his guests the Champion guides.

　　"Now speed thee, Count; ride on," "h he, "a free Frank as thou art.

　　For the brave spoil thou leavest me I thank thee from my heart;

　　And if to win it back again perchance thou hast a mind,

　　Come thou and seek me when thou wi< I am not far to find.

　　But if it be not to thy taste to try another day,

　　Still, somewhat, be it mine or thine, thou carriest away."

　　"Nay! go in peace for me, my Cid: no more I seek of thee;

　　And thou, I think, for one year's space hast won enough of me."

　　He spurred his steed, but, as he rode, a backward glance he bent,

　　Still fearing to the last my Cid his promise would repent:

　　A thing, the world itself to win, my Cid would not have done:

　　No perfidy was ever found in him, the Perfect One.

　　Ormsby's Translation. National Epics