Chapter LXXI

Three years those towns to conquer in the Moorish land he bode, Winning much; by day he rested, and at night was on the road.

LXXll. On the dwellers in Valencia they wrought chastisement sore, From the town they dared not sally against him to make war. He harried all their gardens and a mighty ruin made; And all those years their harvest in utter waste he laid. Loud lamented the Valencians, for sore bested they were, Nor could find in any quarter any sort of provender; Nor could the father aid the son, nor the son aid the sire, Nor comrade comfort comrade. Gentles, 'tis hardship dire To lack for bread, and see our wives and children waste away. They saw their own affliction and no hope of help had they.

To the King of Morocco had they sent the tidings on. 'Gainst the lord of Montes Claros on a great war was he gone. He counselled not. He came not to aid them in the war.

My lord the Cid had heard it. His heart was glad therefor; And forth from Murviédro he marched away by night. He was in the fields of Monreál at the breaking of the light. Through Aragon the tidings he published, and Navarre, And through the Marches of Castile he spread the news afar: Who poverty would put away and riches would attain, Let him seek the Cid, whoever of a soldier's life is fain. Valencia to beleaguer he desireth to go down, That he may unto the Christians deliver up the town