hom they
were clove the dense mass of Saracens like a serpent of steel,
leaving a broad trail of dead behind them. When they pulled rein
and wiped the sweat from their eyes it was to find themselves
with thousands of others upon the top of a steep hill, of which
the sides were thick with dry grass and bush that already was
being fired.

"The Rood! The Rood! Rally round the Rood!" said a voice, and
looking behind them they saw the black and jewelled fragment of
the true Cross set upon a rock, and by it the bishop of Acre.
Then the smoke of the burning grass rose up and hid it from their
sight.

Now began one of the most hideous fights that is told of in the
history of the world. Again and again the Saracens attacked in
thousands, and again and again they were driven back by the
desperate valour of the Franks, who fought on, their jaws agape
with thirst. A blackbearded man stumbled up to the brethren, his
tongue protruding from his lips, and they knew him for the Master
of the Templars.

"For the love of Christ, give me to drink," he said, recognizing
them as the knights at whom he had mocked as water-carriers.

They gave him of the little they had left, and while they and
their horses drank the rest themselves, saw him rush down the
hill refreshed, shaking his red sword. Then came a pause, and
they heard the voice of the bishop of Nazareth, who had clung to
them all this while, saying, as though to himself:

"And here it was that the Saviour preached the Sermon on the
Mount. Yes, He preached the words of peace upon this very spot.
Oh! it cannot be that He will desert us--it cannot be."

While the Saracens held off, the soldiers began to put up the
king's pavilion, and with it other tents, around the rock on
which stood the Cross.

"Do they mean to camp here?" asked Wulf bitterly.

"Peace," answered Godwin; "they hope to make a wall about the
Rood. But it is of no avail, for this is the place of my dream."

Wulf shrugged his shoulders. "At least, let us die well," he
said.

Then the last attack began. Up the hillside rose dense volumes of
smoke, and with the smoke came the Saracens. Thrice they were
driven back; thrice they came on. At the fourth onset few of the
Franks could fight more, for thirst had conquered them on this
waterless hill of Hattin. They lay down upon the dry grass with
gaping jaws and protruding tongues, and let themselves be slain or
taken prisoners. A great company of Saracen horsemen