: an intervening hill hid it from his sight, but
loud shouts and cries, the din of drums and trumpets, and the reports of
arquebuses gave note that the battle had begun.

Here was a royal prize in the field, and the count de Cabra unable to
get into the action! The good cavalier was in an agony of impatience;
every attempt to force his way across the valley only plunged him into
new difficulties. At length, after many eager but ineffectual efforts,
he was obliged to order his troops to dismount, and slowly and carefully
to lead their horses back along slippery paths and amid plashes of
mire and water where often there was scarce a foothold. The good count
groaned in spirit and sweat with mere impatience as he went, fearing the
battle might be fought and the prize won or lost before he could reach
the field. Having at length toilfully unravelled the mazes of the valley
and arrived at firmer ground, he ordered his troops to mount, and led
them full gallop to the height. Part of the good count's wishes were
satisfied, but the dearest were disappointed: he came in season to
partake of the very hottest of the fight, but the royal prize was no
longer in the field.

Boabdil had led on his men with impetuous valor, or rather with hurried
rashness. Heedlessly exposing himself in the front of the battle, he
received two wounds in the very first encounter. His guards rallied
round him, defended him with matchless valor, and bore him bleeding out
of the action. The count de Cabra arrived just in time to see the loyal
squadron crossing the bridge and slowly conveying their disabled monarch
toward the gate of the city.

The departure of Boabdil made no difference in the fury of the battle.
A Moorish warrior, dark and terrible in aspect, mounted on a black
charger, and followed by a band of savage Gomeres, rushed forward to
take the lead. It was Hamet el Zegri, the fierce alcayde of Ronda, with
the remnant of his once-redoubtable garrison. Animated by his example,
the Moors renewed their assaults upon the height. It was bravely
defended, on one side by the marques of Cadiz, on another by Don Alonso
de Aguilar, and as fast as the Moors ascended they were driven back and
dashed down the declivities. The count de Urena took his stand upon the
fatal spot where his brother had fallen; his followers entered with
zeal into the feelings of their commander, and heaps of the enemy sunk
beneath their weapons--sacrifices to the manes of the lam