“So great,” said Enrique with reluctance, “and the odds are so much against us, that there is but one thing left to do, and that is to retreat. We must go back to Ceuta, and wait there for fresh troops and longer ladders.”
Fernando recoiled almost as from a blow.
“What!—have we failed?” he said.
“Well, say we have not yet succeeded. There is no help for it, Fernando; it must be done.”
Enrique was bitterly mortified, and disappointed, and spoke less gently than usual; and perhaps Fernando had never struggled so hard; with himself as before he answered—
“You can judge best, my brother; be it so.”
There was no time to be lost in making the arrangements. The army was to re-embark while sheltered by the darkness, and Fernando went to see how best to transport the wounded; while Enrique held council with the officers, who all agreed with him as to the necessity.
There were loud murmurs, however, among the younger noblemen, and there was a good deal of delay after the first decision before the final start was made. At last all was ready, and Enrique prepared to give the order for the march in the silent night, without banner, shout, or trumpet. How different from that, morning’s approach! What was it moving in front of them, through the purple darkness of the southern night—long, dim, white lines, between them and the sea?
Alas for the disregard of the king’s counsel! They were the white cloaks of the Moorish troops, and the little Christian army was surrounded on all sides.
“Betrayed! betrayed! Caught like mice in a trap!” cried Enrique, losing his self-control. “Where is the false traitor to whom this is owing?”