se reared and
plunged in the midst of the sabre strokes falling swiftly on every side
around him, his white plume, which ever led to victory, gleamed like a
banner over the tumultuous throng. It is almost an inexplicable
development of human nature to hear Murat exclaim, "In the hottest of this
terrible fight, I thought of Christ, and of his transfiguration upon this
very spot, two thousand years ago, and the reflection inspired me with
ten-fold courage and strength." The fiend-like disposition created by
these horrible scenes, is illustrated by the conduct of a French soldier
on this occasion. He was dying of a frightful wound. Still he crawled to a
mangled Mameluke, even more feeble than himself, also in the agonies of
death, and, seizing him by the throat, tried to strangle him. "How can
you," exclaimed a French officer, to the human tiger, "in your condition,
be guilty of such an act?" "You speak much at your ease," the man replied,
"you who are unhurt; but I, while I am dying, must reap some enjoyment
while I can."

The victory was complete. The Turkish army was not merely conquered, it
was destroyed. As that day's sun, vailed in smoke, solemnly descended,
like a ball of fire, behind the hills of Lebanon, the whole majestic
array, assembled for the invasion of Egypt, and who had boasted that they
were "innumerable as the sands of the sea or as the stars of heaven," had
disappeared to be seen no more. The Turkish camp, with four hundred camels
and an immense booty, fell into the hands of the victors.

This signal victory was achieved by a small division of Napoleon's army,
of but six thousand men, in a pitched battle, on an open field. Such
exploits history can not record without amazement. The ostensible and
avowed object of Napoleon's march into Syria was now accomplished.
Napoleon returned again to Acre, to prosecute with new vigor its siege,
for, though the great army, marshaled for his destruction, was
annihilated, he had other plans, infinitely more majestic, revolving in
his capacious mind. One evening he was standing with his secretary upon
the mount which still bears the name of Richard Coeur de Lion,
contemplating the smouldering scene of blood and ruin around him, when,
after a few moments of silent thought, he exclaimed, "Yes, Bourrienne,
that miserable fort has cost me dear. But matters have gone too far not to
make a last effort. The fate of the East depends upon the capture of Acre.
That is the key o