Alberich went back to the princess, and drew her to the barbican, whispering, “See, there is the hero who desires to make you his wife, and queen of his realm.”
Involuntarily she looked down, and saw Ortnit fighting valorously, driving all before him, and looking god-like in his grace and noble bearing. She could not turn away her eyes. He was even now advancing to attack her father. They exchanged one or two blows, the last of which split Machorell’s shield. Ortnit raised his sword to strike again, but Sidrat uttered a loud cry of agony, and he refrained, for at the same moment he saw her standing on the barbican, and knew that she was the maiden he had loved ever since he had seen her image in the magic castle on the sea.
“You see the royal hero?” asked the dwarf; but receiving no answer, he went on: “Go down to the moat to-morrow morning at day-break. Your father will allow you to do so, if you tell him you are going to call upon your gods to return to the castle. But when you reach the moat, you will find the king waiting to speak with you.”
Knowing that his advice would be followed, he left the princess.
The battle had ceased to rage as furiously as before, and all were weary after their exertions. Ortnit’s men retired to the river-side, where they were to encamp for the night, and the Moors shut themselves within the fortress.
All night long Ortnit dreamt of Sidrat, and then awoke and wondered whether she would come to the trysting-place. In the early morning, before the sun was up, the king mounted his horse and rode away alone to Muntabure. He concealed himself beneath the spreading boughs of a tamarind-tree, and waited and waited, doubting, fearing, would she come or would she not? At length a postern door opened, and a white figure came out.
“Sidrat,” he cried, and clasped her in his arms.
“To horse, delay not a moment,” whispered the dwarf; “go down that way, past the waterfall.”
Ortnit at once obeyed, placed the maiden upon his horse, and mounted himself. It was high time. He had scarcely got beyond arrow-shot, when a watchman on the tower recognised him by his helmet, and sounded the alarm.
Machorell and his men-at-arms hurried down to the fight. Several times the fortune of the day changed sides; and when at length the battle was over, the besiegers were too much weakened in number to attempt to carry the castle by storm; while the besieged were also in woeful plight, and their sorrow was increased by the loss of the princess.