On a coal-black steed, with ventail
Down, he pricks to meet the Moor,
And says to him—"Level lances
Quickly; thou shalt see, be sure,
"If our noble king has gentles
Bold enough to tilt with thee;
I'm the least of all, yet beard thee,
Beard thee by that king's decree."
Soon as seen, the bluff Moor scorned him,
Saying, "Pray go back again;
I'm accustomed to do battle,
Not with boys, but bearded men:
"Pray go back, and let some other
Who has passed his teens, advance!"
Garcilasso, stung with fury,
Spurred his steed, and couched his lance.
He a glorious stroke has dealt him!
On his helm red sparkles burn;
Like a thunderbolt the Paynim
Wheels, the insult to return.
Striking, stricken; stricken, striking;
Thus the round of combat ran;
Garcilasso, though an infant,
Showed the metal of a man.
He at length beneath the armpit
Dealt the Moor a mortal wound:
From his saddle fell the giant,
Pale and groaning to the ground.
Garcilasso, quick alighting
From his horse, approached the foe,
Cut his head off, and in triumph
Hung it at his saddle-bow.
Tore away the sacred Ave
From its former place of shame,
On his knees devoutly kissed it,
Kissed the blessed Mary's name.
On his lance's point he bears it
For a pendant, mounts his steed,
With the Moor's in hand, returning,
All the court applaud the deed.