“They are gone,” said the young knight.

“Not they, my lord,” replied his Nestor; “a hungry wolf does not so easily satisfy his craving with a mouthful—­not they; they will come again, and in such a fashion, I fear, as to try our strength rarely.  See, they are wheeling round.  Let each man look well to his armour, steady his spear, guard himself well with shield.  They may charge this time, seeing our strength so sadly reduced.”

“Hourra! hourra!” rang over the desert, and once more the savage horsemen came down like eagles swooping upon their prey.

Again they divided; again they passed at a slight interval of time—­just enough to prevent their receiving, on either side, such arrows from their own brethren as found no sheath in English shield or flesh—­passed like the wind, and the deadly cloud of death-dealing darts came like the fatal simoon of the desert, upon their helpless foe.

Nay, not quite helpless; for at least a dozen Arab steeds roamed the plain riderless.  English archers, for they were from England, were English archers still.

But in so unequal a strife numbers must have finally prevailed.

It was impossible for the English to charge so impalpable an assailant; all they could do was to protect themselves, as far as possible, by shield and coat of mail, while behind the living rampart of steel-clad warriors, the archers returned arrow for arrow, so far as time and numbers suffered them.

“Shall we not charge?” whispered more than once our boyish knight to the old warrior, who had fought thirty years before at Hastings, by whose advice his elders had instructed him to abide in case of emergency.

“Nay, were we separated, they would find out every joint in our mail, and riddle us with arrows till we looked like porcupines, while they would never tarry to abide one honest blow of a battle-axe.  Upon our archers depends our chance.”

It would be a waste of time to tell in detail how the assailants again and again repeated the same manoeuvre, until their Christian opponents were reduced to a handful, when at length the Turks changed their tactics and suddenly charged with all their force.

All would have been over with the Crusaders, crushed beneath the weight of numbers, in spite of their superior weapons, at close quarters.  All seemed ended; the young knight, indeed, protected by his excellent armour, still fought with all the valour of his Norman race—­fought like a paladin of romance—­when—­

A sudden cry, “Holy Cross to the rescue!” and a gallant band of light horsemen charged the Infidels in the rear.

The assailants became the assailed, and fled in all directions.

“Rise up, sir knight—­for knight you should be,” said a stern manly voice; and a warrior of noble mien, whose features were yet hidden behind his visor, raised the youthful hero from the ground.

CHAPTER XXVI.  “QUANTUM MUTATUS AB ILLO HECTORE.”