He reaps right bloodily. But stay, the Saracens have slain
Bold Alvar Fañez’ destrier; to aid him comes amain
The Cid Campeador, for sore the brave Minaya’s need.
His way is barred, his stride is marred by a tall emir’s steed.
His falchion swoops, his falchion stoops, down sinks the turbaned lord.
“Mount in his place, Minaya, mount! I need thy trenchant sword.
The phalanx of the foe is firm, unbroken still they stand.”
The stout Minaya leaps in selle, and falchion in hand
Strews death to left and right, his trust to rout the Moor right soon.
But see, the Cid hath fiercely rid with blood-embroidered shoon