Here a feint, carried out by Gaston of Bearn with great spirit, brought Saladin into the open.  The Christians continued their toilsome march, Saladin attacked their rear; and for six hours or more that rearguard fought a retreating battle, meeting shock after shock, striking no blow, while the centre and the van watched them.  This was one of the tensest days of Richard’s iron rule.  De Charron, commanding the rear, sent imploring messengers—­’For Christ’s love let us charge, sire, we can bear no more of this.’  He was answered, ‘Let them come on again.’  Then Saint-Pol, seeing one of the chances of his life, was in open mutiny of the tongue.  ‘Are we sheep, then?’ Thus he to the French with Burgundy.  ’Is the King a drover of cattle?  Where is the chivalry of France?’ Even Richard’s friends grew fretful:  Champagne tossing his head, muttering curses to himself, Gaston of Bearn pale and serious, chewing his beard.  Two more wild assaults the rearguard took stiffly, at the third they broke in two places, but repelled the Turks.  Richard, watching like a hawk, saw his opportunity.  He sent down a message to the Duke of Burgundy, to Saint-Pol and De Charron—­’Hold them yet once more; at six blasts of my trumpet, charge.’  The Duke of Burgundy, block though he was, was prepared to obey.  About him came buzzing Saint-Pol and his friends:  ’Impossible, my lord Duke, we cannot keep in our men.  Attack, attack.’  Saladin was then coming on, one of his thunderous charges.  ’God strike blind those French mules!’ cried Richard.  ‘They are out!’ This was true:  from left to centre the Christian bowmen were out, the knights pricking after them to the charge.  Richard cursed them from his heart.  ‘Sound trumpets!’ he shouted, ‘we must let go.’  They sounded; they ran forward:  the English first, then the Normans, Poictevins, men of Anjou and Pisa, black Genoese—­but the left had moved before them, and made doubtful Richard’s echelon.  They knelt, pulled bowstrings to the ear.  The sky grew dun as the long shafts flew; the oncoming tide of men flickered and tossed like a broken sea, and the Soldan’s green banner dipped like a reed in it.  A second time the blast of arrows, like a gust of death, smote them flat:  Richard’s voice rang sharply out—­’Passavant, chivalers!  Sauve Anjou!’—­and a young Poictevin knight, stooping low in his saddle, went rocking down the line with words for Henry of Champagne, who ruled the centre.  The archers ran back and crouched; Richard and his chivalry on the extreme right moved out, the next company after him, and the next, and the next, company following company, until, in echelon, all the long fluttering array galloped over the marsh, overlapped and enfolded the Saracen hordes in their bright embrace.  A frenzied cry from some emir by the standard gave notice of the danger; the bodyguard about the Soldan were seen urging him.  Saladin gave some hasty order as he rode off; Richard saw it, and tasted the bitterness of folly.  ’By God, we shall lose him—­oh, bemused hog of Burgundy!’ He sent a man flying to the Duke; but it was too late.  Saladin gained the woods, and with him his bodyguard, the flower of his state.