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The Moorish king had descried the Spanish forces
at a distance, although a slight fog prevented his
seeing them distinctly, and ascertaining their numbers.
His old father-in-law, Ali Atar, was by his
side, who, being a veteran marauder, was well acquainted
with all the standards and armorial bearings
of the frontiers. When the king beheld the ancient
and long-disused banner of Cabra emerging from the
mist, he turned to Ali Atar, and demanded whose
ensign it was. The old borderer was for once at a
loss, for the banner had not been displayed in battle
in his time. “Sire,” replied he, after a pause,
“I have been considering that standard, but do not
know it. It appears to be a dog, which device is
borne by the towns of Baeza and Ubeda. If it be
so, all Andalusia is in movement against you; for it
is not probable that any single commander or community
would venture to attack you. I would advise
you, therefore, to retire.”

The count de Cabra, in winding down the hill
towards the Moors, found himself on much lower
ground than the enemy: he ordered in all haste that
his standard should be taken back, so as to gain the
vantage ground. The Moors, mistaking this for a
retreat, rushed impetuously towards the christians.

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The latter, having gained the height proposed, charged
down upon them at the same moment, with the
battle-cry of “Santiago!” and, dealing the first blows,
laid many of the Moorish cavaliers in the dust.

The Moors, thus checked in their tumultuous assault,
were thrown into confusion, and began to give
way, the christians following hard upon them. Boabdil
el Chico endeavored to rally them. “Hold!
hold! for shame!” cried he; “let us not fly, at least
until we know our enemy.” The Moorish chivalry
were stung by this reproof, and turned to make
front, with the valor of men who feel that they are
fighting under their monarch's eye.

At this moment, Lorenzo de Porres, alcayde of
Luque, arrived with fifty horse and one hundred foot,
sounding an Italian trumpet from among a copse of
oak trees, which concealed his force. The quick
ear of old Ali Atar caught the note. “That is an
Italian trumpet,” said he to the king; “the whole
world seems in arms against your majesty!”

The trumpet of Lorenzo de Porres was answered
by that of the count de Cabra, in another direction,
and it seemed to the Moors as if they were between
two armies. Don Lorenzo, sallying from among
the oaks, now charged upon the enemy: the latter
did not wait to ascertain the force of this new foe;
the confusion, the variety of alarums, the attacks
from opposite quarters, the obscurity of the fog, all
conspired to deceive them as to the number of their
adversaries. Broken and dismayed, they retreated
fighting; and nothing but the presence and

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remonstrance of the king prevented their retreat from becoming
a headlong flight.

This skirmishing retreat lasted for about three
leagues. Many were the acts of individual prowess
between christian and Moorish knights, and the way
was strewed with the flower of the king's guards
and of his royal household. At length they came to
the rivulet of Mingonzales, the verdant banks of
which were covered with willows and tamarisks.
It was swoln by recent rain, and was now a deep
and turbid torrent.

Here the king made a courageous stand with a small
body of cavalry, while his baggage crossed the stream.
None but the choicest and most loyal of his guards
stood by their monarch, in this hour of extremity.
The foot-soldiers took to flight, the moment they
passed the ford; many of the horsemen, partaking
of the general panic, gave reins to their steeds and
scoured for the frontier. The little host of devoted
cavaliers now serried their forces in front of their
monarch, to protect his retreat. They fought hand
to hand with the christian warriors, disdaining to
yield or to ask for quarter. The ground was covered
with the dead and dying. The king, having retreated
along the river banks, and gained some distance from
the scene of combat, looked back, and saw the loyal
band at length give way. They crossed the ford,
followed pell-mell by the enemy, and several of them
were struck down into the stream.

The king now dismounted from his white charger,
whose color and rich caparison made him too con

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spicuous, and endeavored to conceal himself among
the thickets which fringed the river. A soldier of
Lucena, named Martin Hurtado, discovered him, and
attacked him with a pike. The king defended himself
with scimitar and target, until another soldier
assailed him, and he saw a third approaching. Perceiving
that further resistance would be vain, he
drew back and called upon them to desist, offering
them a noble ransom. One of the soldiers rushed
forward to seize him, but the king struck him to the
earth with a blow of his scimitar.

Don Diego Fernandez de Cordova coming up at
this moment, the men said to him, “Señor, here is a
Moor that we have taken, who seems to be a man
of rank, and offers a large ransom.”

“Slaves!” exclaimed king Boabdil, “you have not
taken me. I surrender to this cavalier.”

Don Diego received him with knightly courtesy.
He perceived him to be a person of high rank; but
the king concealed his quality, and gave himself out
as the son of Aben Aleyzar, a nobleman of the royal
household.[28] Don Diego gave him in charge of five
soldiers, to conduct him to the castle of Lucena;
then, putting spurs to his horse, he hastened to rejoin
the count de Cabra, who was in hot pursuit of the
enemy. He overtook him at a stream called Rianaul;
and they continued to press on the skirts of
the flying army, during the remainder of the day.
The pursuit was almost as hazardous as the battle;

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for, had the enemy at any time recovered from their
panic, they might, by a sudden reaction, have overwhelmed
the small force of their pursuers. To guard
against this peril, the wary count kept his battalion
always in close order, and had a body of a hundred
chosen lancers in the advance. The Moors kept up
a Parthian retreat; several times, they turned to
make battle; but, seeing this solid body of steeled
warriors pressing upon them, they again took to
flight.

The main retreat of the army was along the valley
watered by the Xenel, and opening through the
mountains of Algaringo to the city of Loxa. The
alarm-fires of the preceding night had roused the
country; every man snatched sword and buckler
from the wall, and the towns and villages poured
forth their warriors to harass the retreating foe. Ali
Atar kept the main force of the army together, and
turned fiercely from time to time upon his pursuers;
he was like a wolf, hunted through the country he
had often made desolate by his maraudings.

The alarm of this invasion had reached the city
of Antiquera, where were several of the cavaliers
who had escaped from the carnage in the mountains
of Malaga. Their proud minds were festering with
their late disgrace, and their only prayer was for
vengeance on the infidels. No sooner did they hear
of the Moor being over the border, than they
were armed and mounted for action. Don Alonzo
de Aguilar led them forth;—a small body of but
forty horsemen, but all cavaliers of prowess, and

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thirsting for revenge. They came upon the foe on
the banks of the Xenel, where it winds through the
valleys of Cordova. The river, swelled by the late
rains, was deep and turbulent, and only fordable at
certain places. The main body of the army was
gathered in confusion on the banks, endeavoring to
ford the stream, protected by the cavalry of Ali Atar.

No sooner did the little band of Alonzo de Aguilar
come in sight of the Moors, than fury flashed from
their eyes. “Remember the mountains of Malaga!”
they cried to each other, as they rushed to combat.
Their charge was desperate, but was gallantly resisted.
A scrambling and bloody fight ensued, hand
to hand and sword to sword, sometimes on land,
sometimes in the water. Many were lanced on the
banks; others, throwing themselves into the river,
sunk with the weight of their armor, and were
drowned; some, grappling together, fell from their
horses, but continued their struggle in the waves,
and helm and turban rolled together down the
stream. The Moors were far greater in number, and
among them were many warriors of rank; but they
were disheartened by defeat, while the christians
were excited even to desperation.

Ali Atar alone preserved all his fire and energy,
amid his reverses. He had been enraged at the defeat
of the army, the loss of the king, and the ignominious
flight he had been obliged to make through
a country which had so often been the scene of his
exploits: but to be thus impeded in his flight, and
barassed and insulted by a mere handful of warriors,

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roused the violent passions of the old Moor to perfect
frenzy. He had marked Don Alonzo de Aguilar
dealing his blows (says Agapida,) with the pious
vehemence of a righteous knight, who knows that in
every wound inflicted upon the infidels, he is doing
God service. Ali Atar spurred his steed along the
bank of the river, to come upon Don Alonzo by
surprise. The back of the warrior was towards him;
and, collecting all his force, the Moor hurled his
lance to transfix him on the spot. The lance was
not thrown with the usual accuracy of Ali Atar: it
tore away a part of the cuirass of Don Alonzo, but
failed to inflict a wound. The Moor rushed upon
Don Alonzo with his scimitar; but the latter was on
the alert, and parried his blow. They fought desperately
upon the borders of the river, alternately pressing
each other into the stream, and fighting their way
again up the bank. Ali Atar was repeatedly wounded;
and Don Alonzo, having pity on his age, would
have spared his life: he called upon him to surrender.
“Never,” cried Ali Atar, “to a christian dog!” The
words were scarce out of his mouth, when the sword
of Don Alonzo clove his turbaned head, and sank
deep into the brain. He fell dead, without a groan;
his body rolled into the Xenel, nor was it ever found
and recognised.[29] Thus fell Ali Atar, who had long
been the terror of Andalusia. As he had hated and
warred upon the christians all his life, so he died in
the very act of bitter hostility.

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The fall of Ali Atar put an end to the transient
stand of the cavalry. Horse and foot mingled together,
in the desperate struggle across the Xenel;
and many were trampled down, and perished beneath
the waves. Don Alonzo and his band continued
to harass them until they crossed the frontier;
and every blow, struck home to the Moors, seemed
to lighten the load of humiliation and sorrow which
had weighed heavy on their hearts.

In this disastrous rout, the Moors lost upwards of
five thousand killed and made prisoners; many of
whom were of the most noble lineages of Granada:
numbers fled to rocks and mountains, where they
were subsequently taken.

This battle was called, by some, the battle of
Lucena; by others, the battle of the Moorish king,
because of the capture of Boabdil. Twenty-two
banners fell into the hands of the christians, and
were carried to Vaena, and hung up in the church;
where (says a historian of after times,) they remain
to this day. Once a year, on the day of St. George,
they are borne about in procession, by the inhabitants,
who at the same time give thanks to God for
this signal victory granted to their forefathers.

Great was the triumph of the count de Cabra,
when, on returning from the pursuit of the enemy,
he found that the Moorish king had fallen into his
hands. When the unfortunate Boabdil was brought
before him, however, and he beheld him a dejected
captive, whom but shortly before he had seen in
royal splendor surrounded by his army, the generous

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heart of the count was touched by sympathy. He
said every thing that became a courteous and christian
knight, to comfort him; observing that the same
mutability of things which had suddenly destroyed
his recent prosperity, might cause his present misfortunes
as rapidly to pass away; since in this world
nothing is stable, and even sorrow has its allotted
term.

eaf218v1.n28

[28] Garibay, lib. 40. c. 31.

eaf218v1.n29

[29] Cura de los Palacios.

p218-139

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