So he crossed the mountains and went into Navarre.
Over those stony ridges and bare fields Don Sancho was king, the seventh of his name; and he kept his state in the city of Pampluna.

Reputed the wisest prince of his day, it is certain that he had need to be so, such neighbours as he had.

West of him was Santiago, south of him Castile.
These two urgent kings, edging (as it were) on the same bench with him, made his seat a shifty comfort.

No sooner had he warmed himself a place than he was hoist to a cold one.

In front of him, over against the sun, he saw Philip of France pinched to the same degree between England and Burgundy, eager to stretch his extremities since he could not broaden his sides.