And the fierce meteor-sword? They fled, they fled!
The kings of Afric, with their countless hosts,
Were dust in his red path. The scimitar
Was shiver’d as a reed;—for in that hour
The warrior-saint that keeps the watch for Spain,
Was arm’d betimes. And o’er that fiery field
The Cid’s high banner stream’d all joyously,
For still its lord was there.
Cits. (rising tumultuously.) Even unto death
Again it shall be follow’d!