, which must have
crushed him out of recognition on the Last Day. 'Garde, sire!' 'Dornna
del Ciel!' came the cries from below; but 'Lady Virgin!' growled a
shockhead from Bocton-under-Bleane, and pulled his King bodily off the
ladder. The poor fellow was shot in the throat at the next moment; the
stone fell harmless. King Richard took up his dead Englishman in his
arms and carried him to the trenches. He did no more fighting until he
had seen him buried, and ordained a mass for him. Things of those sort
tempted men to love him.

The siege lasted ten days or more with varying successes. Day and night
in the city they heard the drums beat to arms, the cries of the Sheiks,
and more piercing, drawn-out cries than theirs. To the nightly shrilled
pronouncement of the greatness of God came as answer the Christian's
wailing prayer, 'Save us, Holy Sepulchre!' The King of France had an
engine which he called The Bad Neighbour, and did well with it until the
Turks provided a Bad Kinsman, much bigger, which put the Neighbour to
shame, and finally burned him. King Richard had a belfry, and the Count
of Flanders could throw stones with his sling from the trenches into the
market-place; at any rate he said he could, and they all believed him.
The Christians caused the Accursed Tower to totter; they made a breach
below the Tower of Flies, in a most horrible part of the haven. Mine and
countermine, Richard on the north side worked night and day, denying
himself rest, food, reasonable care, for a week forgetful of Jehane and
her hope. The weather grew stiflingly hot, night and day there was no
breath of wind; the whole country reeked of death and abomination. Once,
indeed, a gate was set fire to and rushed. The Christians saw before
them for the first time the ghostly winding way of a street, where blind
pale houses heeled to each other, six feet apart. There was a breathless
fight in that pent way, a strangling, throttled business; Richard with
his peers of Normandy, swaying banners, the crashing sound of steel on
steel, the splash of split polls: but it could not be carried. The
Turks, surging down on them, a wall of men, bodily forced them out.
There was no room to swing an axe, no space for a horse to fall, least
of all for draught of the bow. Richard cried the retreat; they could not
turn, so walked backwards fighting, and the Turks repaired the gate.
Acre did not fall by the sword, but by starvation rather, and the
diligent negotia