s,
the good count forgot all the arrangements of the king; or rather,
blinded by former success, he trusted everything to courage and fortune,
and thought that by one bold swoop he might again bear off the royal
prize and wear his laurels without competition.* His only fear was that
the master of Calatrava and the belligerent bishop might come up in time
to share the glory of the victory; so, ordering every one to horse, this
hot-spirited cavalier pushed on for Moclin without allowing his troops
the necessary time for repose.

* Mariana, lib. 25, c. 17; Abarca, Zurita, etc.

The evening closed as the count arrived in the neighborhood of Moclin.
It was the full of the moon and a bright and cloudless night. The count
was marching through one of those deep valleys or ravines worn in the
Spanish mountains by the brief but tremendous torrents which prevail
during the autumnal rains. It was walled on each side by lofty and
almost perpendicular cliffs, but great masses of moonlight were thrown
into the bottom of the glen, glittering on the armor of the shining
squadrons as they silently passed through it. Suddenly the war-cry of
the Moors rose in various parts of the valley. "El Zagal! El Zagal!" was
shouted from every cliff, accompanied by showers of missiles that struck
down several of the Christian warriors. The count lifted up his eyes,
and beheld, by the light of the moon, every cliff glistening with
Moorish soldiery. The deadly shower fell thickly round him, and the
shining armor of his followers made them fair objects for the aim of the
enemy. The count saw his brother Gonzalo struck dead by his side;
his own horse sank under him, pierced by four Moorish lances, and
he received a wound in the hand from an arquebuse. He remembered the
horrible massacre of the mountains of Malaga, and feared a similar
catastrophe. There was no time to pause. His brother's horse, freed
from his slaughtered rider, was running at large: seizing the reins, he
sprang into the saddle, called upon his men to follow him, and, wheeling
round, retreated out of the fatal valley.

The Moors, rushing down from the heights, pursued the retreating
Christians. The chase endured for a league, but it was a league of rough
and broken road, where the Christians had to turn and fight at almost
every step. In these short but fierce combats the enemy lost many
cavaliers of note, but the loss of the Christians was infinitely more
grievous, comprising