Still, it was with lessened numbers that our heroes fought their way through, and had it not been that a body of Crusading cavalry, attracted by the tumult, came prancing down the hill to their rescue, in all the pomp and panoply of mediaeval warfare, they might have fared worse.

There was a smart engagement when the succours arrived, ending in the complete disappearance of all the Saracens and Turks from the scene, while the victors rode together to the camp, exchanging news, as if such a small affair was not worth talking about.

When they reached the camp, Edward of Aescendune exerted his powers of persuasion in vain to induce the Knight of the Holy Sepulchre to accompany him to his father’s tent, there to receive the paternal thanks.

“When the city is taken, and the Holy Sepulchre free, and the army (bareheaded and barefooted) accomplishes its vow on Calvary—­then, but not before—­we shall meet—­Etienne de Malville and—­” he paused, then continued, “and I shall meet once more.”

“Once more? have you ever met before?”

“We have, but long ago—­let it pass, my son.  God’s blessing rest upon thee and protect thee on the morrow, when thou wilt, I fear, have scant care for thyself.”

“It is for Jerusalem or Paradise.  I shall rest in one or the other by tomorrow night at this time.  I leave which to God.”

“Good youth; the saints keep thee, dear boy, for thy fond mother’s sake.”

At that word mother, a tear stood in the warlike stripling’s eye.  An embrace fonder than seemed usual with the stern knight of many deeds, and they parted.

If our tale had not protracted itself to such an extravagant length already, it would delight us to tell of the feats of valour performed respectively, by the Knight of the Holy Sepulchre, by Etienne de Malville, and by Edward his son; but it must suffice to narrate in as few words as may be, the oft-told history of that eventful day.

On the fortieth day of the siege the city was carried by assault, and on Friday, at three in the afternoon, the day and even the hour of the death of the Son of God, Godfrey de Bouillon planted his standard on the walls, the first of the noble army of Crusaders.

Thus, four hundred and sixty years after the conquest of Christian Jerusalem by the Mahometan, Caliph Omar, it was delivered from the yoke of the false prophet.

Seventy thousand Moslems were slain by the sword; for three whole days the massacre continued, until each worshipper of Mahomet had been sought out amidst the hiding places of the city—­full of secret nooks and corners—­and put to death.

And now, after this bloody sacrifice—­the fruit of mistaken zeal—­the Christians proceeded to accomplish their vow, with every mark of penitence.  With bare heads and bleeding feet they mounted the Via Dolorosa (the sorrowful way) and wept where the great sacrifice had been offered for their sins.  They literally bedewed the sacred soil with their tears.