“I have among you, ladies, a cruel foe, who thus devotes to death one of my bravest knights. Let us say the prayer for the dead on behalf of the victim of this relentless beauty.” All rose, and repeated the supplication in a low voice, Turpin leading them. The terrified Mita alone had not the power to rise. She sank on her knees, and would have remained there motionless and overcome, had not her sister raised her. In the meantime Miton, ignorant of what was passing, and not even hearing the shouts of the crowd, or the entreaties of his comrades, who begged him not to devote himself in this way to destruction-- Miton, gay and proud, to think of the trial he was subjected to, had made all his dispositions for the combat. [Illustration: 091] There were a hundred horsemen in the field--fifty on either side. Their leaders drew them up in two lines of twenty-five. It was truly an imposing sight--these brave fellows, clad in their glittering arms; in firm and compact lines, planted well in their war-saddles. One might have called them a column of iron. The horses, no less impatient than their masters, whinnied and pawed the ground. At last Charlemagne gave the signal. “Charge!” shouted the heralds. Scarcely were their voices heard ere the first rank of combatants dashed forward. The two parties met halfway with an alarming crash. In vain did the spectators attempt to make out the result of this first onset. They were obliged to wait till the dust had blown off. The heart of Mita beat very fast during those few seconds, but at last she beheld her knight hand-to-hand with Garlan the Bearded. One half of the combatants were stretched on the earth; some so sorely wounded, that their squires had to come, raise them, and drag them out of the _mêlée_. Others, however, got up without aid, and went to seek fresh adversaries. Priamus had his spear broken, but he had kept his seat in the saddle. Seeing Girars of Roussillon engaged with Corsablix, a wild chief from the Atlas, he rushed towards them with uplifted blade. But the Burgundian knight perceived his approach, and rapidly dashing at his first opponent, he seized him by the throat, made him do service as a shield against the blows of the King of Persia, and finally flung him, a bleeding and mangled corpse, under the feet of the horses. Then, having but one enemy to deal with, he determined to seize Priamus’s horse, and made such good use of his feet, nails, and teeth, that in a twinkling he was in the saddle; while the King of Persia, rolling in the dust, yielded up his impious soul through twenty gaping wounds. “Allah Akbar! Allah is great!” cried the Saracens. “St. Denis, Montjoie! Montjoie!” cried the knights; and, lo! the second rank flung itself into the conflict. The blare of trumpets and Saracen horns, the beating of drums and gongs, drowned the noise of groans and imprecations.