Aimery of Narbonne, a lad of sixteen, seemed to be playing with his opponent. “Dog!” exclaimed Zumzum-Ivalakh, “cannot you fight more steadily?” “I will give you a lesson in politeness,” said Aimery, still smiling. “First of all, I don’t approve of people addressing me without baring their heads.” As he spoke, his sword sent the King of Garbe’s helm flying. It was one of the famous casques of the ancient tribes of Beni-Ad. “Bravo, Pagan. Are not you afraid of getting sunburnt?” A blow of the battle-axe, which shivered the Count of Narbonne’s shield, was all the answer vouchsafed by Zumzum-Ivalakh. “Bless me! he’s getting vicious,” said Aimery, without being in the least put out. “We must teach him to say he’s sorry.” His sword whirled in the air and smote off the wrist of the King of Garbe, and so brought the combat to a close. The King of Morocco alone continued to make resistance. Miton hastened to dispatch him, for he felt his strength failing him. However, he would receive aid from no quarter save Heaven. His shield was riven, his left arm, laid open with a terrible gash, hung powerless by his side, and every blow he dealt his enemy cost him five in return. Mita had no eyes for any but the Count of Rennes. She lived with his life, she suffered for his wounds, and she would have fallen dead had he perished. How she blamed her cruel commands, and how she hated the King of Morocco! In truth few men’s deaths have been as fervently prayed for as his was. Miton felt a cold sweat seize him; a mournful singing in his ears made him fancy his end was approaching. He struggled against death, and gave one last blow at his opponent, then fell senseless under his horse’s hoofs. That blow was the last the Moorish king received. The sword pierced his bosom, and the steel remained fast in the wound. He was immediately seized with the death shudder, flung wide his arms, dropped his weapons, and uttered so terrible a cry that his frightened steed ran away at full speed straight ahead until he dashed against the walls of the lists. His rider rolled in the dust. The King of Morocco was no more. Charlemagne sprang up beaming with joy. “Ogier,” said he to the King of Denmark, “go bring me news of Miton, and tell him how I prize his valour. I am, moreover, not the only one who prizes him here, it appears. Well, little one,” he added, turning to Mita, “you have perilous fancies. For this once all has turned out well, but you must promise me not to tempt the devil a second time.” Mita flung herself at the Emperor’s feet, and kissed his hand in silence. Charlemagne smiled. “Come,” said he, “rise, Countess of Rennes.” [Illustration: 096] CHAPTER XVI. A FUNERAL MARCH. THUS ended this brilliant passage of arms. Was I not right, my children, when I told you that its equal was never seen? The wounded Saracens were conveyed to hospital, and I need hardly add, they were as well cared for as if they had been duly-baptised Christians.