Then send me to the front to do the bidding of my heart: Grant me this favor that I ask, or else, my Cid, we part." "Good!" said my Cid. "Go, flesh thy blade; there stand thy Moorish foes. Now shall we see how gallantly our fighting Abbot goes." He said; and straight the Bishop's spurs are in his charger's flanks, And with a will he flings himself against the Moorish ranks. By his good fortune, and the aid of God, that loved him well, Two of the foe before his point at the first onset fell. His lance he broke, he drew his sword--God! how the good steel played! Two with the lance he slew, now five go down beneath his blade. But many are the Moors and round about him fast they close, And on his hauberk, and his shield, they rain a shower of blows. He in the good hour born beheld Don Jerome sorely pressed; He braced his buckler on his arm, he laid his lance in rest, And aiming where beset by Moors the Bishop stood at bay, Touched Bavieca with the spur and plunged into the fray; And flung to earth unhorsed were seven, and lying dead were four, Where breaking through the Moorish ranks came the Campeador. God it so pleased, that this should be the finish of the fight; Before the lances of my Cid the fray became a flight; And then to see the tent-ropes burst, the tent-poles prostrate flung! As the Cid's horsemen crashing came the Moorish tents among. Forth from the camp King Bucar's Moors they drove upon the plain, And charging on the rout, they rode and cut them down amain Here severed lay the mail-clad arm, there lay the steel-capped head, And here the charger riderless, ran trampling on the dead. Behind King Bucar as he fled my Cid came spurring on; "Now, turn thee, Bucar, turn!" he cried; "here is the Bearded One: Here is that Cid you came to seek, King from beyond the main, Let there be peace and amity to-day between us twain." Said Bucar, "Nay; thy naked sword, thy rushing steed, I see; If these mean amity, then God confound such amity. Thy hand and mine shall never join unless in yonder deep, If the good steed that I bestride his footing can but keep." Swift was the steed, but swifter borne on Bavieca's stride, Three fathoms from the sea my Cid rode at King Bucar's side; Aloft his blade a moment played, then on the helmet's crown, Shearing the steel-cap dight with gems, Colada he brought down. Down to the belt, through helm and mail, he cleft the Moor in twain. And so he slew King Bucar, who came from beyond the main. This was the battle, this the day, when he the great sword won, Worth a full thousand marks of gold--the famous Brand Tizon. --Tr. by Ormsby. CHAPTER III. SCANDINAVIAN LITERATURE. Scandinavian literature embraces the literature of Norway, Sweden, Iceland, and their western colonies. In the Middle Ages this literature reached its fullest and best development in Iceland.