XXXV.

And Soult, indeed, the battle’s shock withheld, Till rose next morning’s sun. But forth he pushed His skirmishers whose fire was keen repelled, Yet not till night was o’er the mountain hushed. For rode the Marshal where Lanz’ torrent gushed, Our whole position cautiously surveying: By deep defile to far Villalba rushed The infant Arga, all around displaying Our troops on every height, for battle fast arraying.