Chapter XXXV

You might see great clumps of lances lowered and raised again, And many a shield of leather pierced and shattered by the stroke, And many a coat of mail run through, its meshes all to-broke, And many a white pennon come forth all red with blood, And running without master full many a charger good.

Cried the Moors "Mahound!" The Christians shouted on Saint James of grace. On the field Moors thirteen hundred were slain in little space.