His horse was bleeding, blind, and lame, he could no farther go,
Dismounted, without path or aim, the king stepped to and fro.
It was a sight of pity to look on Roderick,
For sore athirst and hungry he staggered faint and sick.
All stained and strewed with dust and blood, like to some smouldering brand
Pluck'd from the flame, Rodrigo shew'd. His sword was in his hand;
But it was hacked into a saw of dark and purple tint;
His jewell'd mail had many a flaw, his helmet many a dint.
He climbed unto a hill-top, the highest he could see,
Thence all about of that wild route his last long look took he.