Hormesinda

At the period of the Moors' most complete dominion over Spain,
Pelayo, the noble scion of her ancient kings, stood almost alone in
the defence of his country. Undismayed by the misfortunes of his race
and people, or by the oppressive rigours of the conquerors, he never
tired of rousing his brethren to a sense of their shameful condition,
and stirring them up to the desire of again restoring their religion
and the throne of their native rulers.

Meantime, his sister Hormesinda, no less ardent and patriotic, but
weaker and more short-sighted, had thought to benefit her people by
sealing a compromise with the invaders. Forgetful of the religious
laws which forbid such a union, she married Munuza, one of the Moorish
chiefs who reigned at Gijon, and for a few years imagined she had
effected wonders because she had induced the conqueror to mitigate
his oppressions.

Pelayo, however, was almost more distressed at the contamination
of his sister, married to an unbeliever, than by the bondage of his
fellow-countrymen; and being on the point of leading the people he
had collected to an attack on the Moorish Alcázar, he first obtained
an interview with her, within the king's private apartments, with
the view of inducing her to abandon her infidel lord.

Hormesinda, however, had chosen her path, and could not now escape
its leadings; the interview was both stormy and touching. Pelayo,
unflinching in his morality and patriotism, could find nothing to say
to her but words of reproach. And Hormesinda could only urge, that
though she might have been wrong in marrying the Moor, yet, now her
word, and life, and love were pledged to him, she could not leave him.

Munuza despised the Christians, and so Pelayo had no difficulty in
gaining access to Hormesinda accompanied by the venerable Veremundo,
his father; but a Jew in Munuza's service having betrayed the
information that he had no less a person than Pelayo himself in his
power, he ordered him to be captured and thrown into a dismal dungeon
called a mazmorra.

No sooner did Munuza know that he had nothing to fear from Pelayo,
than it became evident his moderation towards the Christians had been
dictated less by Hormesinda's representations than by dread of Pelayo's
reprisals, for he now began to add to the burdens of the conquered,
without mercy. To crown all, he issued a decree by which all who
would not make themselves Mohammedans were declared to be slaves.

This measure completed the indignation of the Christians; and when it
became known where Pelayo was held in durance, it needed but little
urging of Leandro, his brother, to lead the outraged population to
the assault of the Alcázar of Gijon.

The impetuosity of the despairing population was irresistible. Munuza,
inclined to despise them at first, found himself surrounded before
he was aware, and sallied out with his reserve to give life to his
troops and repel the insurgents. He had no sooner left the precincts
of the palace than Hormesinda took advantage of the circumstance to
set free her brother, who was thus enabled to show himself at the
head of his people like a miraculous apparition, inspiring them with
courage to drive all before them.

Munuza, obliged to escape for his life, re-entered the Alcázar, where
Hormesinda awaited him with feminine tenderness, desirous only to
make a bulwark of her body between him and Pelayo's fury. Munuza,
however, had doubtless courage, though it was the courage of an
infidel; and not only refused to owe his life to the protection of
a woman, but recognizing that it was her hand alone could have set
his captive free, stabbed her and himself just in time to die at the
entering feet of Pelayo and his victorious host.

This victory of the Christian arms was the first-fruits of many others,
which, hardly fought through succeeding centuries, restored at last
the whole of Spain to Christendom.