Upon the Moorish capitan, he cleaves his shining shield:
The haughty Moslem turns to fly—that blow hath won the field.
Bold Martin Antolinez aims a stroke at Galve’s head;
The jewelled casque it cracks in twain, the infidel hath fled
Rather than bide its fellow; he and Fariz make retreat:
They caracoled to victory, they gallop from defeat.
Ne’er was a field so worthy sung since first men sang of war.
Its laurels unto thee belong, O Cid Campeador!
Fierce and sanguinary was the pursuit. The Moorish rout was complete, and the little Castilian band had lost but fifteen men. Five hundred Arab horses, heavily caparisoned, each with a splendid sword at the saddle-bow, fell into the hands of the Cid, who kept a fifth share for himself, as was the way with the commanders of such free companies as he led. But greatly desiring to make his peace with King Alfonso of Castile, he sent the trusty Alvar Fañez to Court with thirty steeds saddled and bridled in the Moorish fashion.
But the Moors, even with the dust of defeat in their mouths, were not minded to leave the Cid the freedom of their borders, and seeing that he would not be able to hold Alcocer for long against their numbers, he bargained with the Saracens of the neighbouring cities for the ransom of Alcocer. This they gladly agreed to for three thousand marks of gold and silver, so, quitting the place, the Campeador pushed southward, and took up a position on a hill above the district of Mont’real. He laid all the Moorish towns in the neighbourhood under tribute, remaining in his new encampment full fifteen weeks.