He kissed the Cid's hand. Forth he ran the battle-flag to take. They oped the gates, and outward in a great rush did they break. And all the outposts of the Moor beheld them coming on, And back unto the army forthwith they got them gone. What haste there was among the Moors! To arm they turned them back. With the thunder of the war-drum the earth was like to crack. There might you see Moors arming, that swift their ranks did close. Above the Moorish battle two flags-in-chief arose, But of their mingling pennons the number who shall name? Now all the squadrons of the Moors marching right onward came, That the Cid and all his henchmen they might capture out of hand. "My gallant men here in this place see that ye firmly stand, Let no man leave the war-ranks till mine order I declare." Per Vermudóz, he found it too hard a thing to bear, He spurred forth with the banner that in his hand he bore: "May the Creator aid thee, thou true Cid Campeador, Through the line of battle yonder thy standard I will take; I shall see how you bring succor, who must for honor's sake." Said the Campeador: "Of charity, go not to the attack." For answer said Per Vermudóz: "Is naught shall hold me back." Spurring the steed he hurled him through the strong line of the foes. The serried Moors received him and smote him mighty blows, To take from him the banner; yet they could not pierce his mail. Said the Campeador: "Of charity go help him to prevail." XXXV. Before their breasts the war-shields there have they buckled strong, The lances with the pennons they laid them low along, And they have bowed their faces over the saddlebow, And thereaway to strike them with brave hearts did they go. He who in happy hour was born with a great voice did call: "For the love of the Creator, smite them, my gallants ah. I am Roy Diaz of Bivár, the Cid, the Campeador." At the rank where was Per Vermudóz the mighty strokes they bore. They are three hundred lances that each a pennon bear. At one blow every man of them his Moor has slaughtered there, And when they wheeled to charge anew as many more were slain. XXXV. You might see great clumps of lances lowered and raised again, And many a shield of leather pierced and shattered by the stroke, And many a coat of mail run through, its meshes all to-broke, And many a white pennon come forth all red with blood, And running without master full many a charger good. Cried the Moors "Mahound!" The Christians shouted on Saint James of grace. On the field Moors thirteen hundred were slain in little space.