As Pedro would have answer’d, a loud cry
Of menacing imprecation from the troops
Arose; for Orpas, by the Moorish Chief
Sent to allay the storm his villainy
Had stirr’d, came hastening on a milk-white steed,
And at safe distance having check’d the rein,
Beckon’d for parley. ’Twas Orelio
On which he rode, Roderick’s own battle-horse,
Who from his master’s hand had wont to feed,
And with a glad docility obey
His voice familiar. At the sight the Goth
Started, and indignation to his soul
Brought back the thoughts and feelings of old times.
Suffer me, Count, he cried, to answer him,
And hold these back the while! Thus having said,
He waited no reply, but as he was,
Bareheaded, in his weeds, and all unarm’d,
Advanced toward the renegade. Sir Priest,
Quoth Orpas as he came, I hold no talk
With thee; my errand is with Gunderick
And the Captains of the host, to whom I bring
Such liberal offers and clear proof....
The Goth,
Breaking with scornful voice his speech, exclaim’d,
What, could no steed but Roderick’s serve thy turn?
I should have thought some sleek and sober mule
Long train’d in shackles to procession pace,
More suited to my lord of Seville’s use
Than this good war-horse, ... he who never bore
A villain, until Orpas cross’d his back!...
Wretch! cried the astonish’d renegade, and stoopt,
Foaming with anger, from the saddle-bow
To reach his weapon. Ere the hasty hand
Trembling in passion could perform its will,
Roderick had seized the reins. How now, he cried,
Orelio! old companion, ... my good horse, ...
Off with this recreant burthen!... And with that
He raised his hand, and rear’d and back’d the steed,
To that remember’d voice and arm of power
Obedient. Down the helpless traitor fell
Violently thrown, and Roderick over him
Thrice led with just and unrelenting hand
The trampling hoofs. Go join Witiza now,
Where he lies howling, the avenger cried,
And tell him Roderick sent thee!
At that sight,
Count Julian’s soldiers and the Asturian host
Set up a shout, a joyful shout, which rung
Wide through the welkin. Their exulting cry
With louder acclamation was renew’d,
When from the expiring miscreant’s neck they saw
That Roderick took the shield, and round his own
Hung it, and vaulted in the seat. My horse!
My noble horse! he cried, with flattering hand
Patting his high-arch’d neck! the renegade,
I thank him for’t, hath kept thee daintily!
Orelio, thou art in thy beauty still,
Thy pride and strength! Orelio, my good horse,
Once more thou bearest to the field thy Lord,
He who so oft hath fed and cherish’d thee,
He for whose sake, wherever thou wert seen,
Thou wert by all men honour’d. Once again
Thou hast thy proper master! Do thy part
As thou wert wont; and bear him gloriously,
My beautiful Orelio, ... to the last ...
The happiest of his fields!... Then he drew forth
The scymitar, and waving it aloft,
Rode toward the troops; its unaccustom’d shape
Disliked him; Renegade in all things! cried
The Goth, and cast it from him; to the Chiefs
Then said, If I have done ye service here,
Help me, I pray you, to a Spanish sword!
The trustiest blade that e’er in Bilbilis
Was dipt, would not to-day be misbestowed
On this right hand!... Go some one, Gunderick cried,
And bring Count Julian’s sword. Whoe’er thou art,
The worth which thou hast shown avenging him
Entitles thee to wear it. But thou goest
For battle unequipp’d; ... haste there and strip
Yon villain of his armour!
Late he spake,
So fast the Moors came on. It matters not,
Replied the Goth; there’s many a mountaineer,
Who in no better armour cased this day
Than his wonted leathern gipion, will be found
In the hottest battle, yet bring off untouch’d
The unguarded life he ventures.... Taking then
Count Julian’s sword, he fitted round his wrist
The chain, and eyeing the elaborate steel
With stern regard of joy, The African
Under unhappy stars was born, he cried,
Who tastes thy edge!... Make ready for the charge!
They come ... they come!... On, brethren, to the field!...
The word is Vengeance!
Vengeance was the word;
From man to man, and rank to rank it pass’d,
By every heart enforced, by every voice
Sent forth in loud defiance of the foe.
The enemy in shriller sounds return’d
Their Akbar and the Prophet’s trusted name.
The horsemen lower’d their spears, the infantry
Deliberately with slow and steady step
Advanced; the bow-strings twang’d, and arrows hiss’d,
And javelins hurtled by. Anon the hosts
Met in the shock of battle, horse and man
Conflicting; shield struck shield, and sword and mace
And curtle-axe on helm and buckler rung;
Armour was riven, and wounds were interchanged,
And many a spirit from its mortal hold
Hurried to bliss or bale. Well did the Chiefs
Of Julian’s army in that hour support
Their old esteem; and well Count Pedro there
Enhanced his former praise; and by his side,
Rejoicing like a bridegroom in the strife,
Alphonso through the host of infidels
Bore on his bloody lance dismay and death.
But there was worst confusion and uproar,
There widest slaughter and dismay, where, proud
Of his recover’d Lord, Orelio plunged
Through thickest ranks, trampling beneath his feet
The living and the dead. Where’er he turns
The Moors divide and fly. What man is this,
Appall’d they say, who to the front of war
Bareheaded offers thus his naked life?
Replete with power he is, and terrible,
Like some destroying Angel! Sure his lips
Have drank of Kaf’s dark fountain, and he comes
Strong in his immortality! Fly! fly!
They said, this is no human foe!... Nor less
Of wonder fill’d the Spaniards when they saw
How flight and terror went before his way,
And slaughter in his path. Behold, cries one,
With what command and knightly ease he sits
The intrepid steed, and deals from side to side
His dreadful blows! Not Roderick in his power
Bestrode with such command and majesty
That noble war-horse. His loose robe this day
Is death’s black banner, shaking from its folds
Dismay and ruin. Of no mortal mould
Is he who in that garb of peace affronts
Whole hosts, and sees them scatter where he turns!
Auspicious Heaven beholds us, and some Saint
Revisits earth!
Aye, cries another, Heaven
Hath ever with especial bounty blest
Above all other lands its favour’d Spain;
Chusing her children forth from all mankind
For its peculiar people, as of yore
Abraham’s ungrateful race beneath the Law.
Who knows not how on that most holy night
When peace on Earth by Angels was proclaim’d,
The light which o’er the fields of Bethlehem shone,
Irradiated whole Spain? not just display’d,
As to the Shepherds, and again withdrawn;
All the long winter hours from eve till morn
Her forests and her mountains and her plains,
Her hills and valleys were embathed in light,
A light which came not from the sun or moon
Or stars, by secondary powers dispensed,
But from the fountain-springs, the Light of Light
Effluent. And wherefore should we not believe
That this may be some Saint or Angel, charged
To lead us to miraculous victory?
Hath not the Virgin Mother oftentimes
Descending, clothed in glory, sanctified
With feet adorable our happy soil?...
Mark’d ye not, said another, how he cast
In wrath the unhallow’d scymitar away,
And called for Christian weapon? Oh be sure
This is the aid of Heaven! On, comrades, on!
A miracle to-day is wrought for Spain!
Victory and Vengeance! Hew the miscreants down,
And spare not! hew them down in sacrifice!
God is with us! his Saints are in the field!
Victory! miraculous Victory!
Thus they
Inflamed with wild belief the keen desire
Of vengeance on their enemies abhorr’d,
The Moorish chief, meantime, o’erlooked the fight
From an eminence, and cursed the renegade
Whose counsels sorting to such ill effect
Had brought this danger on. Lo, from the East
Comes fresh alarm! a few poor fugitives
Well-nigh with fear exanimate came up,
From Covadonga flying, and the rear
Of that destruction, scarce with breath to tell
Their dreadful tale. When Abulcacem heard,
Stricken with horror, like a man bereft
Of sense, he stood. O Prophet, he exclaim’d,
A hard and cruel fortune hast thou brought
This day upon thy servant! Must I then
Here with disgrace and ruin close a life
Of glorious deeds? But how should man resist
Fate’s irreversible decrees, or why
Murmur at what must be? They who survive
May mourn the evil which this day begins:
My part will soon be done!... Grief then gave way
To rage, and cursing Guisla, he pursued,
Oh that that treacherous woman were but here!
It were a consolation to give her
The evil death she merits!
That reward
She hath had, a Moor replied. For when we reach’d
The entrance of the vale, it was her choice
There in the farthest dwellings to be left,
Lest she should see her brother’s face; but thence
We found her flying at the overthrow,
And visiting the treason on her head,
Pierced her with wounds.... Poor vengeance for a host
Destroyed! said Abulcacem in his soul.
Howbeit, resolving to the last to do
His office, he roused up his spirit. Go,
Strike off Count Eudon’s head! he cried; the fear
Which brought him to our camp will bring him else
In arms against us now; For Sisibert
And Ebba, he continued thus in thought,
Their uncle’s fate for ever bars all plots
Of treason on their part; no hope have they
Of safety but with us. He call’d them then
With chosen troops to join him in the front
Of battle, that by bravely making head,
Retreat might now be won. Then fiercer raged
The conflict, and more frequent cries of death,
Mingling with imprecations and with prayers,
Rose through the din of war.
By this the blood
Which Deva down her fatal channel pour’d,
Purpling Pionia’s course, had reach’d and stain’d
The wider stream of Sella. Soon far off
The frequent glance of spears and gleam of arms
Were seen, which sparkled to the westering orb,
Where down the vale, impatient to complete
The glorious work so well that day begun,
Pelayo led his troops. On foot they came,
Chieftains and men alike; the Oaken Cross
Triumphant borne on high, precedes their march,
And broad and bright the argent banner shone.
Roderick, who dealing death from side to side,
Had through the Moorish army now made way,
Beheld it flash, and judging well what aid
Approach’d, with sudden impulse that way rode,
To tell of what had pass’d, ... lest in the strife
They should engage with Julian’s men, and mar
The mighty consummation. One ran on
To meet him fleet of foot, and having given
His tale to this swift messenger, the Goth
Halted awhile to let Orelio breathe.
Siverian, quoth Pelayo, if mine eyes
Deceive me not, yon horse, whose reeking sides
Are red with slaughter, is the same on whom
The apostate Orpas in his vauntery
Wont to parade the streets of Cordoba.
But thou shouldst know him best; regard him well:
Is’t not Orelio?
Either it is he,
The old man replied, or one so like to him,
Whom all thought matchless, that similitude
Would be the greater wonder. But behold,
What man is he who in that disarray
Doth with such power and majesty bestride
The noble steed, as if he felt himself
In his own proper seat? Look how he leans
To cherish him; and how the gallant horse
Curves up his stately neck, and bends his head,
As if again to court that gentle touch,
And answer to the voice which praises him.
Can it be Maccabee? rejoin’d the King,
Or are the secret wishes of my soul
Indeed fulfill’d, and hath the grave given up
Its dead?... So saying, on the old man he turn’d
Eyes full of wide astonishment, which told
The incipient thought that for incredible
He spake no farther. But enough had pass’d,
For old Siverian started at the words
Like one who sees a spectre, and exclaim’d,
Blind that I was to know him not till now!
My Master, O my Master!
He meantime
With easy pace moved on to meet their march.
King, to Pelayo he began, this day
By means scarce less than miracle, thy throne
Is stablish’d, and the wrongs of Spain revenged.
Orpas the accursed, upon yonder field
Lies ready for the ravens. By the Moors
Treacherously slain, Count Julian will be found
Before Saint Peter’s altar; unto him
Grace was vouchsafed; and by that holy power
Which at Visonia from the Primate’s hand
Of his own proper act to me was given,
Unworthy as I am, ... yet sure I think
Not without mystery, as the event hath shown, ...
Did I accept Count Julian’s penitence,
And reconcile the dying man to Heaven.
Beside him hath his daughter fallen asleep;
Deal honourably with his remains, and let
One grave with Christian rites receive them both.
Is it not written that as the Tree falls
So it shall lie?
In this and all things else,
Pelayo answer’d, looking wistfully
Upon the Goth, thy pleasure shall be done.
Then Roderick saw that he was known, and turn’d
His head away in silence. But the old man
Laid hold upon his bridle, and look’d up
In his master’s face, weeping and silently.
Thereat the Goth with fervent pressure took
His hand, and bending down toward him, said,
My good Siverian, go not thou this day
To war! I charge thee keep thyself from harm!
Thou art past the age for battles, and with whom
Hereafter should thy mistress talk of me
If thou wert gone?... Thou seest I am unarm’d;
Thus disarray’d as thou beholdest me,
Clean through yon miscreant army have I cut
My way unhurt; but being once by Heaven
Preserved, I would not perish with the guilt
Of having wilfully provoked my death.
Give me thy helmet and thy cuirass!... nay, ...
Thou wert not wont to let me ask in vain,
Nor to gainsay me when my will was known!
To thee methinks I should be still the King.
With that he fell upon the old man’s neck;
Then vaulted in the saddle, gave the reins,
And soon rejoin’d the host. On, comrades, on!
Victory and Vengeance! he exclaim’d, and took
The lead on that good charger, he alone
Horsed for the onset. They with one consent
Gave all their voices to the inspiring cry,
Victory and Vengeance! and the hills and rocks
Caught the prophetic shout and roll’d it round.
Count Pedro’s people heard amid the heat
Of battle, and return’d the glad acclaim.
The astonish’d Musselmen, on all sides charged,
Hear that tremendous cry; yet manfully
They stood, and every where with gallant front
Opposed in fair array the shock of war.
Desperately they fought, like men expert in arms,
And knowing that no safety could be found,
Save from their own right hands. No former day
Of all his long career had seen their chief
Approved so well; nor had Witiza’s sons
Ever before this hour achieved in fight
Such feats of resolute valour. Sisibert
Beheld Pelayo in the field afoot,
And twice essay’d beneath his horse’s feet
To thrust him down. Twice did the Prince evade
The shock, and twice upon his shield received
The fratricidal sword. Tempt me no more,
Son of Witiza, cried the indignant chief,
Lest I forget what mother gave thee birth!
Go meet thy death from any hand but mine.
He said, and turn’d aside. Fitliest from me!
Exclaim’d a dreadful voice, as through the throng
Orelio forced his way; fitliest from me
Receive the rightful death too long withheld!
’Tis Roderick strikes the blow! And as he spake,
Upon the traitor’s shoulder fierce he drove
The weapon, well-bestow’d. He in the seat
Totter’d and fell. The Avenger hasten’d on
In search of Ebba; and in the heat of fight
Rejoicing and forgetful of all else,
Set up his cry as he was wont in youth,
Roderick the Goth!... his war-cry known so well.
Pelayo eagerly took up the word,
And shouted out his kinsman’s name beloved,
Roderick the Goth! Roderick and Victory!
Roderick and Vengeance! Odoar gave it forth;
Urban repeated it, and through his ranks
Count Pedro sent the cry. Not from the field
Of his great victory, when Witiza fell,
With louder acclamations had that name
Been borne abroad upon the winds of heaven.
The unreflecting throng, who yesterday,
If it had pass’d their lips, would with a curse
Have clogg’d it, echoed it as if it came
From some celestial voice in the air, reveal’d
To be the certain pledge of all their hopes.
Roderick the Goth! Roderick and Victory!
Roderick and Vengeance! O’er the field it spread,
All hearts and tongues uniting in the cry;
Mountains and rocks and vales re-echoed round;
And he, rejoicing in his strength, rode on,
Laying on the Moors with that good sword, and smote,
And overthrew, and scatter’d, and destroy’d,
And trampled down; and still at every blow
Exultingly he sent the war-cry forth,
Roderick the Goth! Roderick and Victory!
Roderick and Vengeance!
Thus he made his way,
Smiting and slaying through the astonish’d ranks,
Till he beheld, where on a fiery barb,
Ebba, performing well a soldier’s part,
Dealt to the right and left his deadly blows.
With mutual rage they met. The renegade
Displays a scymitar, the splendid gift
Of Walid from Damascus sent; its hilt
Emboss’d with gems, its blade of perfect steel,
Which, like a mirror sparkling to the sun
With dazzling splendour, flash’d. The Goth objects
His shield, and on its rim received the edge
Driven from its aim aside, and of its force
Diminish’d. Many a frustrate stroke was dealt
On either part, and many a foin and thrust
Aim’d and rebated; many a deadly blow
Straight, or reverse, delivered and repell’d.
Roderick at length with better speed hath reach’d
The apostate’s turban, and through all its folds
The true Cantabrian weapon making way
Attain’d his forehead. Wretch! the avenger cried,
It comes from Roderick’s hand! Roderick the Goth,
Who spared, who trusted thee, and was betray’d!
Go tell thy father now how thou hast sped
With all thy treasons! Saying thus he seized
The miserable, who, blinded now with blood,
Reel’d in the saddle; and with sidelong step
Backing Orelio, drew him to the ground.
He shrieking, as beneath the horse’s feet
He fell, forgot his late-learnt creed, and call’d
On Mary’s name. The dreadful Goth pass’d on,
Still plunging through the thickest war, and still
Scattering, where’er he turn’d, the affrighted ranks.