Scarcely had the attack begun when a terrific storm arose.  It was in the winter season, and a sudden hurricane of cold winds came shrieking through the gaps of the mountains to the north.

Amzi, having, as an influential Meccan, been appointed to the command of a division, charged boldly forward in the teeth of the tempest, waving his sword above his head and cheering his men on with his hopeful voice.  Yusuf, Asru and Manasseh pressed forward close behind him.  A cloud of arrows met them, yet they poured impetuously on.  And now the bank was climbed and the conflict became almost hand-to-hand.  The priest’s tall form rendered him conspicuous in the fray.  Some one came hacking and hewing his way towards him.  It was the agile Uzza.  The priest was beset on all sides and was defending himself against fearful odds, when the face of Uzza, fiend-like in its hate, burst upon him as a new opponent.  He raised his weapon for a blow, but the vision of a Guebre altar upon which a little, bleeding child lay, rose before him, and his arm fell.

Uzza perceived his advantage.  With a howl of triumph he cried, “False priest, you shall not escape me this time!” and made a fierce stroke with his scimitar.  But the blow was parried.

“Simpleton!  Would you let him kill you?” cried a harsh voice close by the priest.  And the next moment Uzza fell with a death-groan at the feet of Asru.

And now the storm struck with full fury, howling among the houses of Medina, whistling shrilly on the upper air, and bending the palm trees low along its furious path.  Thatches were torn from the roofs and carried whirling through the air; clouds of dust were blown high along the streets, and black, ragged clouds scurried across the sky as if urged on by demon-force.  Horses neighed loudly.  Many of them became unmanageable, and dashed, with terrified eyes and distended nostrils, through the midst of the flying soldiery.  The tents of Abu Sofian were torn from their pegs and hurled away.  Then the rain descended in sheets, or, whirled round by the wind, swirled along in columns with almost the force of a water-spout.

Suddenly a cry was raised:  “It is Mohammed!  The prophet has raised the storm by enchantment!”

The cry echoed from mouth to mouth above the roar of the tempest.  The superstitious Arabs were seized with terror and fled precipitately, believing themselves surrounded by legions of invisible spirits.  Amzi and his little band stayed until the last; then, deserted by all and blinded by the descending torrents, they, too, were obliged to withdraw, and another victory, that of the Battle of the Ditch, had fallen to the prophet.

This was the last expedition undertaken by the Koreish against their victorious enemy.  Mohammed, of course, attributed his great conquest to divine agency.  In a passage from the Koran he declared: 

“O true believers, remember the favor of God toward you, when armies of infidels came against you, and we sent against them a wind and hosts of angels which ye saw not.”