Legend and vision, prophecy and sign, Where wonders wild of Arabesque combine With Gothic imagery of darker shade; and we read how both sides of the approaching combat were cheered or dismayed by omens of various kinds. The Prophet himself is said to have appeared to Tārik, and to have bidden him be of good courage, to strike, and to conquer; and many like fables are related. But whatever may have been the dreams and visions of the armies then encamped over against one another near the river Guadelete, the result of the combat was never doubtful. Tārik, indeed, although he had been reinforced with 5,000 Berbers, commanded still but a little army of 12,000 troops, and Roderick had six times as many men to his back. But the invaders were bold and hardy men, used to war, and led by a hero; the Spaniards were a crowd of ill-treated slaves, and among their commanders were treacherous nobles. The kinsmen of Witiza were there, obedient to the summons of Roderick; but they intended to desert to the enemy's side in the midst of the battle and win the day for the Saracens. They had no idea that they were betraying Spain. They thought that the invaders were only in search of booty; and that, the raid over and the booty secured, they would go back to Africa, when the line of Witiza would be restored to its ancient seat. And thus they lent a hand to the day's work which placed the fairest provinces of Spain for eight centuries under the Moslem domination. When the Moors saw the mighty army that Roderick had brought against them, and beheld the king in his splendid armour under a magnificent canopy, their hearts for a moment sank within them. But Tārik cried aloud, "Men, before you is the enemy, and the sea is at your backs. By Allah, there is no escape for you save in valour and resolution." And they plucked up courage and shouted, "We will follow thee, O Tārik," and rushed after their general into the fray. The battle lasted a whole week, and prodigies of valour are recorded on both sides. Roderick rallied his army again and again; but the desertion of the partisans of Witiza turned the fortune of the field and it became the scene of a disastrous rout. The hosts of Don Rodrigo were scattered in dismay, When lost was the eighth battle, nor heart nor hope had they; He, when he saw that field was lost, and all his hope was flown, He turned him from his flying host, and took his way alone. All stained and strewed with dust and blood, like to some smouldering brand Plucked from the flame, Rodrigo showed; his sword was in his hand, But it was hacked into a saw of dark and purple tint: His jewelled mail had many a flaw, his helmet many a dint. He climbed into a hill-top, the highest he could see, Thence all about of that wide rout his last long look took he; He saw his royal banners, where they lay drenched and torn, He heard the cry of victory, the Arab's shout of scorn.