It was a day of feverish excitement when they drew near Bethany and the Mount of Olives.  All the followers of the young English knight, who had never been in Palestine before, looked forward to the moment when the Holy City would first meet their gaze with an intense expectation which even rendered them silent; only as they pressed onward they sometimes broke out into the Crusading hymn—­familiar to them as some popular song to modern soldiers.

And this was the song: 

“Coelestis urbs, Hierusalem
Beata pacis visio,”

It was hardly to be a vision of peace to them.

At length they stood on the slope of the same hill where the Redeemer had wept over the guilty city; and—­will my readers believe me?—­many of these men of strife—­familiar with war and bloodshed—­did not restrain their tears of joy, as they forgot their toils past, and dangers yet to come, ere they could enter the holy walls.

This had been their longing expectation—­this the goal of their wearisome journey; they had oft doubted whether their eyes would ever behold it—­and now—­It lay in all its wondrous beauty—­beautiful even then—­before them; but, the banners of the false prophet floated upon the Hill of Zion.

Across the valley of the Kedron rose the Mosque of Omar, on the site of the Temple of Solomon; farther to the left lay the fatal Valley of Hinnom, once defiled by the fires of Moloch; but on neither of these sides lay the object of the greatest present interest—­the Christian Host.

Their attack was directed against the northern and western sides of the city, where the approach was far more easy.

“There is the standard of Godfrey de Bouillon, on the first swell of Mount Calvary,” said the elder knight; “there on the left, where the Jewish rabble erst stoned St. Stephen, Tancred and Robert of Normandy conduct the attack; there, between the citadel and the foot of Mount Zion, floats the banner of Raymond of Toulouse.”

“And there, amidst the banners which surround the ducal lion of Normandy, I see our own,” cried young Edward.  “Oh! let us charge through that rabble and join them.”

“Thine is a spirit I love to see; come, it shall be done—­St. George for merry England—­Holy Sepulchre—­en avant;” and the whole galloped madly down the descent, first bringing the news of their own arrival to a mixed crew of Saracens and Turks—­an irregular corps of observation which had got in their way.

They cleft their way to the very centre, as a wedge driven by a powerful mallet cleaves its way to the heart of the tree.  The followers of Mohammed scattered in all directions, and then, like wasps, clustered around in hope to sting.

Their fleet horses enabled them to keep near the Christian cavalry, and to annoy them by countless flights of arrows, darts, and spears, while, as usual, they avoided close contest, as a hunter would avoid the hug of the bear.  When they could not do so, it was wondrous to see how limbs flew about, and bodies were cleft to the very chine before the ponderous battle-axes of Western Christendom.