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A light had burned throughout the night in
the tent of the king, and anxious thoughts and
dismal visions troubled his repose. If he fell into
a slumber, he beheld in his dreams the shadowy
phantoms of the necromantic tower, or the injured
Florinda, pale and dishevelled, imprecating
the vengeance of heaven upon his head. In the
mid-watches of the night, when all was silent except
the footstep of the sentinel, pacing before his
tent, the king rose from his couch, and walking
forth looked thoughtfully upon the martial scene
before him. The pale crescent of the moon hung
over the moorish camp, and dimly lighted up the
windings of the Guadalete. The heart of the
king was heavy and oppressed; but he felt only
for himself, says Antonio Agapida, he thought nothing
of the perils impending over the thousands
of devoted subjects in the camp below him;
sleeping, as it were, on the margin of their
graves. The faint clatter of distant hoofs, as if
in rapid flight, reached the monarch's ear, but

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the horsemen were not to be described. At that
very hour, and along the shadowy banks of that
river, here and there gleaming with the scanty
moonlight, passed the fugitive messenger of
Count Julian, with the plan of the next day's
treason.

The day had not yet dawned. when the sleepless
and impatient monarch summoned his attendants
and arrayed himself for the field. He then
sent for the venerable Bishop Urbino, who had
accompanied him to the camp, and, laying aside
his regal crown, he knelt with head uncovered,
and confessed his sins before the holy man. After
this a solemn mass was performed in the royal
tent, and the eucharist administered to the monarch.
When these ceremonies were concluded,
he besought the archbishop to depart forthwith
for Cordova, there to await the issue of the battle,
and to be ready to bring forward reinforcements
and supplies. The archbishop saddled his mule
and departed just as the faint blush of morning
began to kindle in the east. Already the camp
resounded with the thrilling call of the trumpet,
the clank of armour, and the tramp and neigh of
steeds. As the archbishop passed through the
camp, he looked with a compassionate heart on
this vast multitude, of whom so many were soon
to perish. The warriors pressed to kiss his
hand, and many a cavalier full of youth and fire

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received his benediction, who was to lie stiff and
cold before the evening.

When the troops were marshalled for the
field, Don Roderick prepared to sally forth in
the state and pomp with which the Gothic kings
were wont to go to battle. He was arrayed in
robes of gold brocade; his sandals were embroidered
with pearls and diamonds; he had a sceptre
in his hand, and he wore a regal crown resplendent
with inestimable jewels. Thus gorgeously
apparelled, he ascended a lofty chariot
of ivory, the axle-trees of which were of silver,
and the wheels and pole covered with plates of
burnished gold. Above his head was a canopy
of cloth of gold embossed with armorial devices,
and studded with precious stones. [21] This sumptuous
chariot was drawn by milk-white horses,
with caparisons of crimson velvet, embroidered
with pearls. A thousand youthful cavaliers surrounded
the car; all of the noblest blood and
bravest spirit; all knighted by the king's own
hand, and sworn to defend him to the last.

When Roderick issued forth in this resplendent
state, says an Arabian writer, surrounded
by his guards in gilded armour and waving plumes
and scarfs and surcoats of a thousand dyes, it
was as if the sun were emerging in the dazzling

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chariot of the day from amidst the glorious clouds
of morning.

As the royal car rolled along in front of the
squadrons, the soldiers shouted with admiration.
Don Roderick waved his sceptre and addressed
them from his lofty throne, reminding them of
the horror and desolation which had already been
spread through the land by the invaders. He
called upon them to summon up the ancient valour
of their race and avenge the blood of their
brethren. “One day of glorious fighting,” said
he, “and this infidel horde will be driven into the
sea or will perish beneath your swords. Forward
bravely to the fight; your families are behind
you praying for your success; the invaders
of your country are before you; God is above to
bless his holy cause, and your king leads you to
the field.” The army shouted with one accord,
“Forward to the foe, and death be his portion
who shuns the encounter!”

The rising sun began to shine along the glistening
waters of the Guadalete as the Moorish
army, squadron after squadron, came sweeping
down a gentle declivity to the sound of martial
music. Their turbans and robes, of various dyes
and fashions, gave a splendid appearance to their
host; as they marched, a cloud of dust arose and
partly hid them from the sight, but still there
would break forth flashes of steel and gleams of

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burnished gold, like rays of vivid lightning;
while the sound of drum and trumpet, and the
lash of moorish cymbal, were as the warlike
thunder within that stormy cloud of battle.

As the armies drew near each other, the sun
disappeared among gathering clouds, and the
gloom of the day was increased by the columns
of dust which rose from either host. At length
the trumpets sounded for the encounter. The
battle commenced with showers of arrows, stones
and javelins. The christian foot soldiers fought
to disadvantage, the greater part being destitute
of helm or buckler. A battalion of light Arabian
horsemen, led by a Greek renegado named Maguel
el Rumi, careered in front of the christian
line, launching their darts, and then wheeling off
beyond the reach of the missiles hurled after
them. Theodomir now brought up his seasoned
troops into the action, seconded by the veteran
Pelistes, and in a little while the battle became
furious and promiscuous. It was glorious to behold
the old Gothic valour shining forth in this
hour of fearful trial. Wherever the moslems fell,
the christians rushed forward, seized upon their
horses, and stripped them of their armour and
their weapons. They fought desperately and
successfully, for they fought for their country and
their faith. The battle raged for several hours;
the field was strown with slain, and the Moors,

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overcome by the multitude and fury of their foes
began to falter.

When Taric beheld his troops retreating before
the enemy, he threw himself before them
and, rising in his stirrups, “Oh moslems! conquerors
of Africa!” cried he, “whither would
you fly? The sea is behind you, the enemy before;
you have no hope but in your valour and
the help of God. Do as I do and the day is
ours!”

With these words he put spurs to his horse
and sprung among the enemy, striking to right
and left, cutting down and destroying, while his
steed, fierce as himself, trampled upon the foot
soldiers, and tore them with his teeth. At this
moment a mighty shout arose in various parts of
the field; the noontide hour had arrived. The
Bishop Oppas with the two princes, who had
hitherto kept their bands out of the fight, suddenly
went over to the enemy, and turned their weapons
upon their astonished countrymen. From
that moment the fortune of the day was changed,
and the field of battle became a scene of wild
confusion and bloody massacre. The christians
knew not whom to contend with, or whom to
trust. It seemed as if madness had seized upon
their friends and kinsmen, and that their worst
enemies were among themselves.

The courage of Don Roderick rose with his

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danger. Throwing off the cumbrous robes of
royalty and descending from his car, he sprang
upon his steed Orelia, grasped his lance and
buckler, and endeavoured to rally his retreating
troops. He was surrounded and assailed by
a multitude of his own traitorous subjects, but
defended himself with wondrous prowess. The
enemy thickened around him; his loyal band of
cavaliers were slain, bravely fighting in his defence;
the last that was seen of the king was in
the midst of the enemy, dealing death at every
blow.

A complete panic fell upon the christians; they
threw away their arms and fled in all directions.
They were pursued with dreadful slaughter, until
the darkness of the night rendered it impossible
to distinguish friend from foe. Taric then
called off his troops from the pursuit, and took
possession of the royal camp; and the couch
which had been pressed so uneasily on the preceding
night by Don Roderick, now yielded
sound repose to his conqueror.[22]

eaf221v3.n21

[21] Entrand. Chron. an. Chris. 714.

eaf221v3.n22

[22] This battle is called indiscriminately by historians the
battle of Guadalete, or of Xeres, from the neighbourhood of
that city.

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