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Of Julian's army in that hour support

Their old esteem; and well Count Pedro there
Enhanced his former praise; and by his side,
Rejoicing like a bridegroom in the strife,
Alphonso through the host of infidels

Bore on his bloody lance dismay and death.
But there was worst confusion and uproar,
There widest slaughter and dismay, where, proud
Of his recovered Lord, Orelio plunged

Through thickest ranks, trampling beneath his feet
The living and the dead. Where'er he turns

The Moors divide and fly.

What man is this,

Appalled they say, who to the front of war
Bareheaded offers thus his naked life?

Replete with power he is, and terrible,

Like some destroying Angel! Sure his lips
Have drank of Kaf's dark fountain, and he comes

Strong in his immortality! Fly! fly!

They said, this is no human foe!.. Nor less

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Of wonder filled the Spaniards when they saw
How flight and terror went before his way,
And slaughter in his path. Behold, cries one,
With what command and knightly ease he sits

The intrepid steed, and deals from side to side
His dreadful blows! Not Roderick in his power
Bestrode with such command and majesty
That noble war-horse. His loose robe this day
Is death's black banner, shaking from its folds
Dismay and ruin. Of no mortal mold

Is he who in that garb of peace

affronts

Whole hosts, and sees them scatter where he turns! Auspicious Heaven beholds us, and some Saint

Revisits earth!

Aye, cries another, Heaven

Hath ever with especial bounty blest

Above all other lands its favoured Spain;
Chusing her children forth from all mankind
For its peculiar people, as of yore
Abraham's ungrateful race beneath the Law.
Who knows not how on that most holy night
When Peace on Earth by Angels was proclaimed,
The light which o'er the fields of Bethlehem shone,
Irradiated whole Spain? not just displayed,
As to the Shepherds, and again withdrawn ;
All the long winter hours from eve till morn
Her forests and her mountains and her plains,

Her hills and vallies were embathed in light,
A light which came not from the sun or moon
Or stars, by secondary powers dispensed,
But from the fountain-springs, the Light of Light
Effluent. And wherefore should we not believe
That this may be some Saint or Angel, charged
To lead us to miraculous victory?

Hath not the Virgin Mother oftentimes
Descending, clothed in glory, sanctified
With feet adorable our happy soil?...
Marked ye not, said another, how he cast
In wrath the unhallowed scymitar away,
And called for Christian weapon? Oh be sure
This is the aid of Heaven! On, comrades, on!
A miracle to-day is wrought for Spain!
Victory and Vengeance! Hew the miscreants down,
And spare not! hew them down in sacrifice!
God is with us! his Saints are in the field!

Victory! miraculous Victory!

Thus they

Inflamed with wild belief the keen desire

Of vengeance on their enemies abhorred.

The Moorish chief, meantime, o'erlooked the fight

From an eminence, and cursed the renegade
Whose counsels sorting to such ill effect

Had brought this danger on. Lo, from the East
Comes fresh alarm! a few poor fugitives
Well-nigh with fear exanimate came up,
From Covadonga flying, and the rear

Of that destruction, scarce with breath to tell -
Their dreadful tale. When Abulcacem heard,
Stricken with horror, like a man bereft

Of sense, he stood. O Prophet, he exclaimed,
A hard and cruel fortune hast thou brought
This day upon thy servant! Must I then
Here with disgrace and ruin close a life
Of glorious deeds? But how should man resist
Fate's irreversible decrees, or why

Murmur at what must be! They who survive

May mourn the evil which this day begins:

My part will soon be done! ... Grief then gave way

To rage, and cursing Guisla, he pursued,

Oh that that treacherous woman were but here!

It were a consolation to give her

The evil death she merits!

That reward

She hath had, a Moor replied. For when we reached The entrance of the vale, it was her choice

There in the farthest dwellings to be left,

Lest she should see her brother's face; but thence We found her, flying at the overthrow,

And, visiting the treason on her head,

Pierced her with wounds... Poor vengeance for a host Destroyed! said Abulcacem in his soul.

Howbeit, resolving to the last to do

His office, he roused up his spirit. Go,

Strike off Count Eudon's head! he cried; the fear
Which brought him to our camp will bring him else
In arms against us now! For Sisibert

And Ebba, he continued thus in thought,
Their uncle's fate for ever bars all plots
Of treason on their part; no hope have they
Of safety but with us. He called them then
With chosen troops to join him in the front
Of battle, that by bravely making head,
Retreat might now be won. Then fiercer raged
The conflict, and more frequent cries of death,

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