“Ah, the dogs!” cried the king, as he recognised the pale features of the darling of the army,--“have they murdered the bravest knight that ever fought for Christendom?” “Not that, your majesty,” quoth he of the Exploits, faintly, “but I am sorely stricken.” “It must have been more than man who struck thee down,” said the king. “It was the mace of Muza Ben Abil Gazan, an please you, sire,” said one of the squires; “but it came on the good knight unawares, and long after his own arm had seemingly driven away the Pagan.” “We will avenge thee well,” said the king, setting his teeth: “let our own leeches tend thy wounds. Forward, sir knights! St. Iago and Spain!” The battle had now gathered to a vortex; Muza and his cavalry had joined Boabdil and the Moorish foot. On the other hand, Villena had been reinforced by detachments that in almost every other quarter of the field had routed the foe. The Moors had been driven back, though inch by inch; they were now in the broad space before the very walls of the city, which were still crowded by the pale and anxious faces of the aged and the women: and, at every pause in the artillery, the voices that spoke of HOME were borne by that lurid air to the ears of the infidels. The shout that rang through the Christian force as Ferdinand now joined it struck like a death-knell upon the last hope of Boabdil. But the blood of his fierce ancestry burned in his veins, and the cheering voice of Almamen, whom nothing daunted, inspired him with a kind of superstitious frenzy. “King against king--so be it! Let Allah decide between us!” cried the Moorish monarch. “Bind up this wound ‘tis well! A steed for the santon! Now, my prophet and my friend, mount by the side of thy king--let us, at least, fall together. Lelilies! Lelilies!”