on the height of Bentomiz. For a time there was a pause in the
bloody commotions of the city; all attention was turned to the blow
about to be struck at the Christian camp. The same considerations
which diffused anxiety and terror through Cordova swelled every
bosom with exulting confidence in Granada. The Moors expected to
hear of another massacre like that in the mountains of Malaga. "El
Zagal has again entrapped the enemy!" was the cry. "The power of
the unbelievers is about to be struck to the heart. We shall soon
see the Christian king led captive to the capital." Thus was the name
of El Zagal on every tongue. He was extolled as the savior of the
country, the only one worthy of wearing the Moorish crown. Boabdil
was reviled as basely remaining passive while his country was invaded
and so violent became the clamor of the populace that his adherents
trembled for his safety.

While the people of Granada were impatiently looking out for tidings
of the anticipated victory scattered horsemen came spurring across
the Vega. They were fugitives from the Moorish army, and brought
the first incoherent account of its defeat. Every one who attempted
to tell the tale of this unaccountable panic and dispersion was as if
bewildered by the broken recollection of some frightful dream. He
knew not how or why it came to pass. He talked of a battle in the
night, among rocks and precipices, by the glare of bale-fires; of
multitudes of armed foes in every pass, seen by gleams and flashes;
of the sudden horror that seized upon the army at daybreak, its
headlong flight, and total dispersion. Hour after hour the arrival
of other fugitives confirmed the story of ruin and disgrace.

In proportion to their recent vaunting was the humiliation that now
fell upon the people of Granada. There was a universal burst, not of