Manasseh was stationed at the head of a band of horsemen, whom he was now with difficulty keeping in check.  Yet for a moment he forgot all in watching a figure that was ascending the breach.

Whose but Asru’s that gigantic form?  Whose but Asru’s that floating turban of white—­that helmet in which flashed a diamond placed there by Kenana’s own hand?  Whose but Asru’s that clanking sword and that three-pronged spear which none but he could wield?

“Surely now the Moslem will waver!” thought the youth; and with bated breath he watched this second combat, waged beside the bleeding form of Asru’s dead brother.

With dauntless air the Moslem awaited the coming of Asru.  They closed upon each other.  The armies looked on, motionless, breathless, the combatants struggled, a writhing mass, broken only by the flash of the spear and glitter of the lance, as deadly blows were dealt or parried—­and the sunshine rained from above.  The very air seemed to stand still in watching, and the clash of every stroke was borne, with painful distinctness, to the ears of Asru’s friend.

The combat was an equal one, Ali’s agility matching well the superior strength of his antagonist, and it was not soon over.  At last the Moslem seemed to stagger.

There, there, Asru, strike!  He falls, he falls!  There is your advantage!  Strike!  Joy, joy! victory is ours!

But no!  Ye gods, what is wrong!  Why stands Asru there, helpless?  Why does he not act?  By Allah, he loses time!  Ha! his turban end has become twisted over his eyes beneath his helmet!  Help!  Help!  Ye gods!  Ha!  Ali rises with a sharp recoil!  He strikes!  Woe!  Woe!  Asru is down!

A shout breaks afresh from the Moslem army as the brave Asru’s body is dragged to one side of the breach.  And now the Moslems dash forward like an avalanche.  The breach widens; the green and yellow turbans swarm within the walls.  Manasseh’s horse dash forward.  Over the open square a detachment of Moslem horse is spurring, the horsemen bending low as they ride, their maddened animals, gorgeous in trappings of scarlet, yellow and blue, with tails knotted at the ends, “like unto the heads of serpents.”  With regular sway the long spears swing with the motion of the horses.

Clash!  The opposing forces meet.  Men fall.  Horses roll over in the dust.  Back!  Back!  The Moslems are in headlong flight!  Yet one youth fights on.  Straight for the young Jewish leader he dashes.  Blows rain on each side.  Some of the Jewish horse close round.

“Keep off, men!” shouts Manasseh.  “Would ye attack a man fifty to one?”

Blows fall faster and breath comes in short gasps.

The Moslem’s horse gives way beneath him, and falls with a shriek backwards.  The gallant youth springs to his feet, then throws up his arms and falls.  His turban drops off from his brow, and, for the first time, Manasseh recognizes Kedar.

He turns sick.  Is the Moslem dead?  No, his heart still beats.  “Here, men, take him into that house.  I will seek him later.”