The Infantes of Carrión, who did not relish the idea of a protracted struggle with the Moors, resolved to betake themselves to the security of their own estates at the first opportunity. But, as if to shame them, the warlike Bishop Jerome appeared before the Cid armed cap-à-pie and entreated his permission to take part in the fighting. The Cid smilingly gave his assent, and no sooner had he done so than the doughty churchman mounted a great war-horse and, issuing out of the gates, galloped headlong against the Saracens. At the first onset he slew two of them outright, but had the misfortune to break his lance. Nothing daunted, however, this ardent disciple of the Church militant drew his sword and, brandishing it about his head like a trained knight-at-arms, flung himself once more upon the Moorish ranks with all the weight of his charger. Laying about him left and right, he killed or wounded a heathen with every blow. But the enemy closed round him, and it would have gone hard indeed with the fighting bishop had not the Cid, who had witnessed his gallantry with all a warrior's admiration for the deeds of another brave man, laid his lance in rest and, setting spurs to Babieca, plunged into the thickest of the fray. Beneath his terrific onset the lightly armed Moors gave way in terror. Wheeling, he came at them again, crashing through their ranks like a tempest, and dealing death and destruction wherever he went. The Moors wavered, broke, and fled amain. The whole army of the Cid now bore down upon them, horse and man, bursting into their camp, breaking the tent-ropes, and dashing aside the gaudy Eastern pavilions where they had lodged. Upon the terror-stricken ranks the horsemen of Castile Came thundering down; King Bucar's men the iron tempest feel. And down to dust the severed arm, the severed steel-capped head Fall lifeless, and the charger's hoofs trample the gory dead. "Ha! stay, King Bucar!" cries the Cid. "Now tarry, Moorish lord; You came to seek me o'er the sea, mine is the peaceful word." "If peace is in thy naked sword and in thy charging steed, Then I would flee it," cried the King, and spurred his horse to speed. With hasty stride the King doth ride straight for the open sea; Spain's champion is at his side, never again will he Know the delights of Algiers' halls; Colada shines on high: Now whether by the sword or sea, King Bucar, wilt thou die? The good blade shears the Moor in twain, down to the saddle-bow; So perished the Algerian lord--may every Moor die so! And thus upon this day of fame the Cid his guerdon won, Worth many a purse of minted marks, the noble blade Tizon!