The Moors assaulted with all the fury of religious hate, and all the fire of chivalry, gave way in every direction; their nobles fell in heaps under the arrows, the swords, and the artillery, of the christians: frantic with despair, Muley Moloch exerted the remaining spark of life in an attempt to rally them; he spurred his horse, and brandishing a massy scymitar, aimed a blow at Don Antonio of Crato: that effort was his last; he fell dead upon the field. His body-guard with difficulty rescued their master’s corpse from the Portuguese, and conveyed it to the litter, where his death was concealed from the army; but the hoisting of a particular pendent over the litter, by one of his ministers, who had secretly corresponded with the Xeriff Hamet, gave the signal so long waited for by that perfidious wretch. He had hitherto hung back in the action; now, he ordered his troops to turn their arms upon their allies. At this command, the left wing of the Moorish horse wheeled round, and took the Christians in flank; a dreadful carnage ensued: the brave Portuguese amazed, bewildered, not knowing who were or were not their enemies, fought in darkness; even their German and Castillian auxiliaries shared the fate of the treacherous infidels, for they now dealt the strokes of death without discrimination: the presence of their king all hacked and bleeding, only increased their consternation. At this critical juncture, Stukeley appeared; waving his fiery sword as a call for them to rally, and aim at conquest still, he broke through the squadrons of Muley Hamet, like some tremendous comet that traverses the wilds of æther, scattering terror and dismay over nations. He rushed towards the traitor: Hamet read destruction in the deadly eyes of the Englishman, and took to flight; Stukeley followed; his indignant threats sounded through the field: gaining upon the Xeriff, he was aiming a mortal blow at him, when the affrighted wretch threw himself into a rivulet which crossed their path, and borne down by the weight of his robes and armour, perished ingloriously. Stukeley looked at him for a moment with scornful disappointment, then turned towards the fight. But he was now surrounded by a host of assailants: their merciless weapons fell on his head, his shoulders, his limbs; he turned from side to side, alternately parrying and receiving wounds. Fighting his way to a ruined watch tower, he placed his back against it, and defended himself with determined intrepidity; till at length, bleeding at every pore, and exhausted with exertion, his resistance became fainter and fainter. He staggered and sunk down. The dying hero cast his eyes around as if in search of his friend, the next moment they closed for ever. Thus fell the gallant Sir Thomas Stukeley, in the bloom of manhood, in a foreign land!