They had really only proceeded a few miles into the mountains beyond Avila, but already their sturdy little legs were tired, and their stout little backs were sore. Pedro thought crusading not such very great fun after all; he was always hungry and thirsty, and Theresa would only let him take a bite once in a while.
“Don’t you suppose there is a Moorish castle somewhere around here that we could capture, and so get plenty to eat?” he inquired of his sister. “That is what the Cid was always finding. Don’t you remember how nicely he got into Alcacer and slew eleven Infidel knights, and found ever so much gold and things to eat? This is what he said, you know:
“‘On, on, my knights, and smite the foe! And falter not, I pray; For by the grace of God, I trow, The town is ours this day!’”
“O Pedro, dear, why will you think so much of things to eat,” groaned Theresa. “Do you not know that to be hungry is one way to be a martyr. And besides, it is, I doubt not, our just punishment for having taken any thing to eat without letting mother know. We must suffer and be strong, little brother.”
“That’s just like a girl,” cried Pedro, a trifle scornfully. “How can we be strong if we suffer? I can’t, I know.”
But before Theresa could enter upon an explanation of this most difficult problem--one that has troubled many older heads than little Pedro’s,--both the children started in surprise, and then involuntarily shrunk closer to the dark gray rock in whose shadow they were resting. For there, not a hundred yards distant, coming around a turn in the road, was one of the very Infidels they had come out to meet and conquer, or be martyred by.
He was a rather imposing-looking but not a formidable old man. His cloak or mantle of brown stuff was worn and ragged, his turban was quite as dingy, but the long white beard that fell upon his breast made his swarthy face look even fiercer than it really was, and the stout staff, with which he helped himself over the uneven road, seemed to the little crusaders some terrible weapon of torture and of martyrdom.
But Pedro was a valiant little fellow after all. The fighting spirit of his father the Don burned within him, and few little folks of seven know what caution is. He whispered to his sister, whose hand he had at first clutched in terror, a word of assurance.