His constitution was already much shaken, and Sir William, after a few days of alternate torpor and delirium, passed away, without having been conscious enough to leave any counsel to his children, or any directions to Father Philip, the chaplain, or Sigbert, his English squire.

At the moment, sorrow was not disturbed by any great alarm, for the castle was well victualled, and had a good well, supplied by springs from the mountains; and Father Philip, after performing the funeral rites for his lord, undertook to make his way to Tiberias, or to Jerusalem, with tidings of their need; and it was fully anticipated that succour would arrive long before the stores in the castle had been exhausted.

But time went on, and, though food was not absolutely lacking, the spring of water which had hitherto supplied the garrison began to fail.  Whether through summer heats, or whether the wily enemy had succeeded in cutting off the source, where once there had been a clear crystal pool in the rock, cold as the snow from which it came, there only dribbled a few scanty drops, caught with difficulty, and only imbibed from utter necessity, so great was the suspicion of their being poisoned by the enemy.

The wine was entirely gone, and the salted provision, which alone remained, made the misery of thirst almost unbearable.

On the cushions, richly embroidered in dainty Eastern colouring, lay Mabel de Hundberg, with dry lips half opened and panting, too weary to move, yet listening all intent.

Another moment, and in chamois leather coat, his helmet in hand, entered her brother from the turret stair, and threw himself down hopelessly, answering her gesture.

“No, no, of course no.  The dust was only from another swarm of those hateful Saracens.  I knew it would be so.  Pah! it has made my tongue more like old boot leather than ever.  Have no more drops been squeezed from the well?  It’s time the cup was filled!”

“It was Roger’s turn.  Sigbert said he should have the next,” said Mabel.

Walter uttered an imprecation upon Roger, and a still stronger one on Sigbert’s meddling.  But instantly the cry was, “Where is Sigbert?”

Walter even took the trouble to shout up and down the stair for Sigbert, and to demand hotly of the weary, dejected men-at-arms where Sigbert was; but no one could tell.

“Gone over to the enemy, the old traitor,” said Walter, again dropping on the divan.

“Never!  Sigbert is no traitor,” returned his sister.

“He is an English churl, and all churls are traitors,” responded Walter.

The old nurse, who was fitfully fanning Mabel with a dried palm-leaf, made a growl of utter dissent, and Mabel exclaimed, “None was ever so faithful as good old Sigbert.”

It was a promising quarrel, but their lips were too dry to keep it up for more than a snarl or two.  Walter cast himself down, and bade old Tata fan him; why should Mabel have it all to herself?