It was a terrible scene that followed; for in that death-grapple of warring creeds and races, there could be no thought of mercy. Taken by surprise, and attacked on both sides at once, the Saracens had not a chance; and had not some of the assailants been drawn away from the fight by their eagerness to free the fainting captives, not one Moor would have been left. As it was, the few whose knowledge of the country enabled them to plunge into the thickets and escape, were but a miserable gleaning of that great harvest of death.
While the fight lasted, Alured’s black steed and white plume were foremost in the fray, bearing down all before them. He was just cutting the cords that coupled some of the hindmost captives, when he came face to face with a tall, stately Moorish cavalier, splendidly armed and mounted, whose green turban showed that he claimed kindred with the Prophet himself.
This was the leader of the Saracen troop, who, riding with the rearguard, had taken what he held to be the post of danger, these over-confident raiders never dreaming of being attacked in front. Without a word, the two chiefs clashed together, each seeing in the other the destroyer of his race and the foe of his religion.
For a few moments, the rattle of their blows on helm and harness was as quick and fierce as the patter of hailstones on a roof. But so equally were they matched, that no one could have told how the fray was likely to go; and at last, as if by mutual consent, they paused for breath.
“Christian,” said the Moor, with stern admiration, “I would thou wert riding with the servants of the Prophet instead of these dogs of Spain, for thou art the best warrior I have ever faced!”
“I may well say the same of thee,” cried the Englishman, heartily, in the Saracen’s own tongue, with which his campaigns on the Moorish border had made him familiar. “Wilt thou yield to my mercy? See, thy men are scattered, and the day is ours!”
In fact, the Moorish leader was now the only man left fighting, and around him De Claremont’s men were closing on every side. But not one offered to lay hand on him, it being so fully recognized a custom of that age for two commanders to get up a private fight of their own amid the general battle, that no one ever dreamed of interfering with it.
“Yield?” echoed the Moor, disdainfully; “were I alone in the field against ye all, to no unbeliever, even to so good a champion as thou, should Ismail El Zagal (Ishmael the Valiant) yield himself!”
“Art thou indeed El Zagal?” cried Alured, eyeing him with a new interest; for though he had never met this man before, there were few Spanish knights on the whole Andalusian border who had not some marvellous tale to tell of his feats of arms.
“I am,” said the emir; “and thou, Christian chief—thou too hast surely a name that is famed in war. May I know it?”