Either through terror and confusion or through real ignorance of
the country their guides, instead of conducting them out of the
mountains, led them deeper into their fatal recesses. The morning
dawned upon them in a narrow rambla, its bottom formed of broken
rocks, where once had raved along the mountain-torrent, while above
there beetled great arid cliffs, over the brows of which they beheld
the turbaned heads of their fierce and exulting foes. What a
different appearance did the unfortunate cavaliers present from that
of the gallant band that marched so vauntingly out of Antiquera!
Covered with dust and blood and wounds, and haggard with fatigue
and horror, they looked like victims rather than like warriors. Many
of their banners were lost, and not a trumpet was heard to rally up
their sinking spirits. The men turned with imploring eyes to their
commanders, while the hearts of the cavaliers were ready to burst
with rage and grief at the merciless havoc made among their faithful
followers.

All day they made ineffectual attempts to extricate themselves from
the mountains. Columns of smoke rose from the heights where in
the preceding night had blazed the alarm-fire. The mountaineers
assembled from every direction: they swarmed at every pass, getting
in the advance of the Christians, and garrisoning the cliffs like so
many towers and battlements.

Night closed again upon the Christians when they were shut up in
a narrow valley traversed by a deep stream and surrounded by
precipices which seemed to reach the skies, and on which blazed and
flared the alarm-fires. Suddenly a new cry was heard resounding
along the valley. "El Zagal! El Zagal!" echoed from cliff to cliff.