It were a consolation to give her The evil death she merits! That reward She hath had, a Moor replied. For when we reach’d The entrance of the vale, it was her choice There in the farthest dwellings to be left, Lest she should see her brother’s face; but thence We found her flying at the overthrow, And visiting the treason on her head, Pierced her with wounds.... Poor vengeance for a host Destroyed! said Abulcacem in his soul. Howbeit, resolving to the last to do His office, he roused up his spirit. Go, Strike off Count Eudon’s head! he cried; the fear Which brought him to our camp will bring him else In arms against us now; For Sisibert And Ebba, he continued thus in thought, Their uncle’s fate for ever bars all plots Of treason on their part; no hope have they Of safety but with us. He call’d them then With chosen troops to join him in the front Of battle, that by bravely making head, Retreat might now be won. Then fiercer raged The conflict, and more frequent cries of death, Mingling with imprecations and with prayers, Rose through the din of war. By this the blood Which Deva down her fatal channel pour’d, Purpling Pionia’s course, had reach’d and stain’d The wider stream of Sella. Soon far off The frequent glance of spears and gleam of arms Were seen, which sparkled to the westering orb, Where down the vale, impatient to complete The glorious work so well that day begun, Pelayo led his troops. On foot they came, Chieftains and men alike; the Oaken Cross Triumphant borne on high, precedes their march, And broad and bright the argent banner shone. Roderick, who dealing death from side to side, Had through the Moorish army now made way, Beheld it flash, and judging well what aid Approach’d, with sudden impulse that way rode, To tell of what had pass’d, ... lest in the strife They should engage with Julian’s men, and mar The mighty consummation. One ran on To meet him fleet of foot, and having given His tale to this swift messenger, the Goth Halted awhile to let Orelio breathe. Siverian, quoth Pelayo, if mine eyes Deceive me not, yon horse, whose reeking sides Are red with slaughter, is the same on whom The apostate Orpas in his vauntery Wont to parade the streets of Cordoba. But thou shouldst know him best; regard him well: Is’t not Orelio? Either it is he, The old man replied, or one so like to him, Whom all thought matchless, that similitude Would be the greater wonder. But behold, What man is he who in that disarray Doth with such power and majesty bestride The noble steed, as if he felt himself In his own proper seat? Look how he leans To cherish him; and how the gallant horse Curves up his stately neck, and bends his head, As if again to court that gentle touch, And answer to the voice which praises him.