“So please your Grace! once more upon your clemency I call;
   A grievance yet remains untold, the greatest grief of all. 
   And let the court give ear, and weigh the wrong that hath been done. 
   I hold myself dishonored by the lords of Carrion. 
   Redress my combat they must yield; none other will I take. 
   How now, Infantes! what excuse, what answer do ye make? 
   Why have ye laid my heartstrings bare?  In jest or earnest say,
   Have I offended you? and I will make amends to-day.

  “My daughters in your hands I placed the day that forth ye went,
   And rich in wealth and honors from Valencia were ye sent. 
   Why did ye carry with you brides ye loved not, treacherous curs? 
   Why tear their flesh in Corpes wood with saddle-girths and spurs,
   And leave them to the beasts of prey?  Villains throughout were ye! 
   What answer ye can make to this ’tis for the court to see.”

When the Cid added that Alfonso was responsible for these unfortunate marriages, the monarch admitted the fact, and asked what the Infantes of Carrion could say in their own defence.  Insolently they declared the Cid’s daughters not worthy to mate with them, stating they had, on the whole, treated them better than they deserved by honoring them for a time with their attentions.

Had not the Cid forbidden his followers to speak until he granted permission, these words would have been avenged almost as soon as uttered.  But, forgetting his previous orders, the aged Cid now demanded of Pero Mudo (Dumby) why he did not speak, whereupon this hero boldly struck one of the Infantes’ party and challenged them all to fight.

Thus compelled to settle the difficulty by a judicial duel, the king bade the Infantes and their uncle be ready to meet the Cid’s champions in the lists on the morrow.  The poem describes the encounter thus: 

  The marshals leave them face to face and from the lists are gone;
  Here stand the champions of my Cid, there those of Carrion;
  Each with his gaze intent and fixed upon his chosen foe,
  Their bucklers braced before their breasts, their lances pointing low,
  Their heads bent down, as each man leans above his saddle-bow. 
  Then with one impulse every spur is in the charger’s side,
  And earth itself is felt to shake beneath their furious stride;
  Till, midway meeting, three with three, in struggle fierce they lock,
  While all account them dead who hear the echo of the shock.

The cowardly Infantes, having been defeated, publicly confessed themselves in the wrong, and were ever after abhorred, while the Cid returned to Valencia with the spoils wrung from his adversaries, and proudly presented to his wife and daughters the three champions who had upheld their cause.

  He who a noble lady wrongs and casts aside—­may he
  Meet like requital for his deeds, or worse, if worse there be. 
  But let us leave them where they lie—­their meed is all men’s scorn. 
  Turn we to speak of him that in a happy hour was born. 
  Valencia the Great was glad, rejoiced at heart to see
  The honoured champions of her lord return in victory.