The army, drawn up in three lines, now halted on the plain of Alcazar: De Castro and Stukeley had the glory of leading the vanguard, which consisted wholly of volunteers; the Portuguese infantry were in the center, and the rear under Don Diego De Souza; on the right wing were the Moorish horse of Muley Hamet, and the squadrons of count Vimiosa; on the left were the royal standard, the banner of the cross, and the flower of the Portuguese cavalry; round these, were seen the young dukes of Barcelos, Contiuho, and D’Aveyro, the counts Villa-real, Ridondo, and Norogno, the bishops of Coimbra and Porto, and lastly, the prior of Crato. Attended by his favorite page, the King was seen with his beaver up, mounted on a white Arabian, riding along the lines, and animating his men to the charge. His emerald-green armour, (on which the sun now sparkled) and the white plume of his helmet, (now lifted by rising winds) rendered him fatally conspicuous. Meanwhile the Moors were steadily advancing, with all the pomp of gaudy banners and magnificent attire: in the midst of a chosen band was seen the litter of their sick, but intrepid Xeriff. A hundred thousand armed men, approaching in the form of a crescent, gradually extending their wings to outstretch and inclose a handful of Christians, made a formidable appearance: momentarily checking his horse, Sebastian looked at them with some portion of that awe which a vast and powerful object excites, but without one throb of apprehension, he believed himself under the immediate protection of an approving Providence! Suddenly the Moorish music began to play, and their troops advanced with a quicker step: the king of Portugal rode to the left of his little band, and placing himself before the royal-standard, bade his lords remember that they fought for a crown. “I, for a heavenly one, and for Gonsalva!” he whispered to himself, hastily darting his eye athwart the mingled banners of the cross, and of Portugal. The two armies were now so near each other, that the Portuguese could distinctly see the Xeriff assisted from his litter to a horse; age and sickness had enfeebled his body, but his energetic soul was yet unimpaired. In the act of haranguing his men, he appeared slowly riding through the lines, with flowing robes, and a long white beard, which gave him a majestic air: Sebastian pitied his infirmities, and beheld his grey locks with reverence; he commanded his followers to spare, and to respect Muley Moloch, should he fall into their hands, and then he gave the signal for battle. A general discharge of artillery began the action: the Portuguese horse charged with impetuosity, their young King, like a destroying angel, leading them on: his terrible looks, and still more terrible arm, scattered the infidels on every side. Stukeley and De Castro’s track resembled the path of lightning; for by the blue gloom of their steely armour they were distinguished afar off, flaming through the dark ranks of the enemy.