attained the summit, he looked around for his companions-in-arms,
but they were no longer following him, and there was no trumpet to
summon them. It was a consolation to the marques, however, that
his brothers and several of his relations, with a number of his
retainers, were still with him: he called his brothers by name,
and their replies gave comfort to his heart.

His guide now led the way into another valley, where he would be
less exposed to danger: when he had reached the bottom of it the
marques paused to collect his scattered followers and to give time
for his fellow-commanders to rejoin him. Here he was suddenly
assailed by the troops of El Zagal, aided by the mountaineers
from the cliffs. The Christians, exhausted and terrified, lost all
presence of mind: most of them fled, and were either slain or taken
captive. The marques and his valiant brothers, with a few tried
friends, made a stout resistance. His horse was killed under him;
his brothers, Don Diego and Don Lope, with his two nephews, Don
Lorenzo and Don Manuel, were one by one swept from his side,
either transfixed with darts and lances by the soldiers of El Zagal
or crushed by stones from the heights. The marques was a veteran
warrior, and had been in many a bloody battle, but never before
had death fallen so thick and close around him. When he saw
his remaining brother, Don Beltran, struck out of his saddle by a
fragment of a rock and his horse running wildly about without his
rider, he gave a cry of anguish and stood bewildered and aghast.
A few faithful followers surrounded him and entreated him to fly for
his life. He would still have remained, to have shared the fortunes
of his friend Don Alonso de Aguilar and his other companions-in-arms,
but the forces of El Zagal were between him and them, and death
was whistling by on every wind. Reluctantly, therefore, he consented