Thus was fought, and thus won, a battle, in which four hundred and fifty Spaniards, aided by a handfull of Tlascalans, contended with a host of such incredible numbers, that, to this day, men remember it with wonder, and would reject it as a fable, were it not that the testimony of a thousand facts has placed it beyond the reach of question.
CHAPTER LXIV.
What Alvarado had reported of Don Amador was true. The neophyte averred, that, dead or alive,—a spectre or a creature of flesh and blood,—the steed, bestridden by the sable phantom, and urged with such fury against the footmen, was neither less nor more than his own good beast, Fogoso; and he declared, with even more impetuosity, as Don Pedro had related, that the figure, descending the opposite hill, was the knight of Calavar, on his ancient war-horse,—an apparition, perhaps, but no St. James,—unless this heavenly patron had condescended to appear in the likeness of a knight so valiant and so pious. Strange fancies beset him, and so great was his impatience to resolve the marvel, that he scarce waited to behold the general balance his good spear, before he turned his horse, and spurred furiously backward.
Meanwhile, the black horseman descended with such violence upon the footmen, as threatened their instant destruction, his fierce eyes, as the Christians thought, gleaming with the fires of hell; so that, notwithstanding the sudden relief coming in the person of the supposed saint, they were seized with horror, and gave way before him. At the moment when he rushed among them, uttering what seemed the Lelilee of another land, he was encountered by his celestial opponent, whose strong voice shouted out—"God and St. John! and down with thee, paynim demon!"
The shock of two such steeds, both of great weight, each bearing a man cased in thick armour, each urged on by the impetus of descent from the hills, and meeting, midway, in a narrow valley, was tremendous. At the moment of encounter, the sable rider perceived, for the first time, his opponent;—he checked his steed suddenly, and flung up his lance, as if to avoid a contest. But the precaution came too late—his rising lance struck the casque of his adversary, tearing it off, and revealing the grim visage and grizzly locks of the knight of Calavar; while, at the same moment, the spear of Don Gabriel, aimed with as much skill as determination, smote the enemy on the lower part of the corslet, and piercing it as a buckler of ice, penetrated, at once, to the bowels and spine. The shock that unseated the riders, was shared by the steeds, and horse and man rolled together on the earth.
The loud cry of "Calavar! the Penitent Knight! the valiant Don Gabriel!" set up by the bewildered and awe-struck infantry, reached the ears of the novice. He spurred on with new ardour, and reaching the footmen just as they divided in pursuit of the flying barbarians, he sprung from his horse, and beheld his kinsman lying senseless, and as it appeared to him, lifeless, in the arms of the wounded Baltasar.
"In the name of heaven, and Amen! what is this? and what do I see?" he cried. "Oh heaven, is this my knight?—and doth he live?"
"He lives," said Baltasar, "and he feels as of flesh and blood; and yet did he die on the lake-side. God forgive us our sins! for neither heaven nor hell will hold the dead!"
Just at that moment, the knight opened his eyes, and rolled them on his kinsman,—but his kinsman regarded him not. A low moaning voice of one never to be forgotten, fell on the ear of the novice, as he gazed on his friend; and starting up, he beheld, hard by, the page Jacinto, lying on the body of Abdalla, from whose head he had torn the helm, and now strove, with feeble fingers, to remove the broken and blood-stained corslet.