Then he drew forth The scymitar, and waving it aloft, Rode toward the troops; its unaccustom’d shape Disliked him; Renegade in all things! cried The Goth, and cast it from him; to the Chiefs Then said, If I have done ye service here, Help me, I pray you, to a Spanish sword! The trustiest blade that e’er in Bilbilis Was dipt, would not to-day be misbestowed On this right hand!... Go some one, Gunderick cried, And bring Count Julian’s sword. Whoe’er thou art, The worth which thou hast shown avenging him Entitles thee to wear it. But thou goest For battle unequipp’d; ... haste there and strip Yon villain of his armour! Late he spake, So fast the Moors came on. It matters not, Replied the Goth; there’s many a mountaineer, Who in no better armour cased this day Than his wonted leathern gipion, will be found In the hottest battle, yet bring off untouch’d The unguarded life he ventures.... Taking then Count Julian’s sword, he fitted round his wrist The chain, and eyeing the elaborate steel With stern regard of joy, The African Under unhappy stars was born, he cried, Who tastes thy edge!... Make ready for the charge! They come ... they come!... On, brethren, to the field!... The word is Vengeance! Vengeance was the word; From man to man, and rank to rank it pass’d, By every heart enforced, by every voice Sent forth in loud defiance of the foe. The enemy in shriller sounds return’d Their Akbar and the Prophet’s trusted name. The horsemen lower’d their spears, the infantry Deliberately with slow and steady step Advanced; the bow-strings twang’d, and arrows hiss’d, And javelins hurtled by. Anon the hosts Met in the shock of battle, horse and man Conflicting; shield struck shield, and sword and mace And curtle-axe on helm and buckler rung; Armour was riven, and wounds were interchanged, And many a spirit from its mortal hold Hurried to bliss or bale. Well did the Chiefs Of Julian’s army in that hour support Their old esteem; and well Count Pedro there Enhanced his former praise; and by his side, Rejoicing like a bridegroom in the strife, Alphonso through the host of infidels Bore on his bloody lance dismay and death. But there was worst confusion and uproar, There widest slaughter and dismay, where, proud Of his recover’d Lord, Orelio plunged Through thickest ranks, trampling beneath his feet The living and the dead. Where’er he turns The Moors divide and fly. What man is this, Appall’d they say, who to the front of war Bareheaded offers thus his naked life? Replete with power he is, and terrible, Like some destroying Angel! Sure his lips Have drank of Kaf’s dark fountain, and he comes Strong in his immortality! Fly! fly! They said, this is no human foe!... Nor less Of wonder fill’d the Spaniards when they saw How flight and terror went before his way, And slaughter in his path.