The armour of Stukeley was completely rusted with blood, by his side lay a lance shivered to pieces, and his hand still grasped a broken battle-axe. Abensallah lifted up the helmet his companion had dropped, and saw that it was beat in upon the top, as if with repeated blows of a mace: he gently replaced it on the ground. Meanwhile Sebastian hung over the remains of his friend in an agony of blasted hopes, bitter retrospections, and unavailing regrets: it was long ere he could command this tide of grief; but recovering by degrees, he rose with a calmer air, and besought the dervise to lend his aid in committing the honored clay to earth. Without hesitation the charitable Mahometan consented to carry the slaughtered warrior to his own dwelling, and there see him peacefully buried. “Moor!” exclaimed the young King, with passionate gratitude, “Should I live to regain my kingdom, and with it my African possessions, your countrymen will owe to you blessings and privileges hitherto unknown.” Abensallah called on Allah to witness this promise, then hastened away to bring the mule. When Sebastian was left alone, he threw himself along the ground by Stukeley’s body, and remained stedfastly looking on it: the well-known face, the still ruin, the melancholy midnight, and the destructive plain before him, together with the mournful sound of a neighbouring rivulet, deepened the desolate sadness of that moment: he fastened his lips on the chilling hand of his unconscious friend, while the hollow echo of his own sighs rung through the neighbouring chambers. Abensallah found him in the same mournful attitude. Having assisted each other in placing Stukeley’s corse on the mule, they proceeded slowly, by a longer though less toilsome way than they had come, to the rocks. When they reached the cave, Sebastian was so sick from the fretting of his wounds, that he could with difficulty gain its entrance: Ismael met them, and lifted their lamented burthen into the second chamber. There the king watched it for the remaining hours, while Ismael and the dervise were digging the last bed of the hero. Two hours after day light the grave was finished, Stukeley was buried with his sword and spurs, as the peculiar badges of knighthood, which was supposed swift to succour and strong to avenge; his body was wrapped in a coarse shroud of Moorish cloth, but his head was uncovered; the thick glossy hair gave beauty still to the now marble features:--Sebastian thought of the time when he had hoped to have decorated that majestic head with a crown. When the grave was closed, he placed upon it a rude cross of wood which he had shaped during the night, and kneeling down by it pronounced a prayer for the gallant soul. Abensallah and Ismael moved away.