Three days after the sack and plunder of the place, Don Beltran was seated in the hall-court lately occupied by the proud Alfaqui, lying in his divan, dressed in his rich robes, the fountains playing in the centre, the slaves of the Moor ministering to his scarred and rugged Christian conqueror.  Some fanned him with peacocks’ pinions, some danced before him, some sang Moor’s melodies to the plaintive notes of a guzla, one—­it was the only daughter of the Moor’s old age, the young Zutulbe, a rosebud of beauty—­sat weeping in a corner of the gilded hall:  weeping for her slain brethren, the pride of Moslem chivalry, whose heads were blackening in the blazing sunshine on the portals without, and for her father, whose home had been thus made desolate.

He and his guest, the English knight Sir Wilfrid, were playing at chess, a favorite amusement with the chivalry of the period, when a messenger was announced from Valencia, to treat, if possible, for the ransom of the remaining part of the Alfaqui’s family.  A grim smile lighted up Don Beltran’s features as he bade the black slave admit the messenger.  He entered.  By his costume it was at once seen that the bearer of the flag of truce was a Jew—­the people were employed continually then as ambassadors between the two races at war in Spain.

“I come,” said the old Jew (in a voice which made Sir Wilfrid start), “from my lord the Alfaqui to my noble senor, the invincible Don Beltran de Cuchilla, to treat for the ransom of the Moor’s only daughter, the child of his old age and the pearl of his affection.”

“A pearl is a valuable jewel, Hebrew.  What does the Moorish dog bid for her?” asked Don Beltran, still smiling grimly.

“The Alfaqui offers 100,000 dinars, twenty-four horses with their caparisons, twenty-four suits of plate-armor, and diamonds and rubies to the amount of 1,000,000 dinars.”

“Ho, slaves!” roared Don Beltran, “show the Jew my treasury of gold.  How many hundred thousand pieces are there?” And ten enormous chests were produced in which the accountant counted 1,000 bags of 1,000 dirhems each, and displayed several caskets of jewels containing such a treasure of rubies, smaragds, diamonds, and jacinths, as made the eyes of the aged ambassador twinkle with avarice.

“How many horses are there in my stable?” continued Don Beltran; and Muley, the master of the horse, numbered three hundred fully caparisoned; and there was, likewise, armor of the richest sort for as many cavaliers, who followed the banner of this doughty captain.

“I want neither money nor armor,” said the ferocious knight; “tell this to the Alfaqui, Jew.  And I will keep the child, his daughter, to serve the messes for my dogs, and clean the platters for my scullions.”

“Deprive not the old man of his child,” here interposed the Knight of Ivanhoe; “bethink thee, brave Don Beltran, she is but an infant in years.”

“She is my captive, Sir Knight,” replied the surly Don Beltran; “I will do with my own as becomes me.”