Such was the account sent by Karazza to Raymond:  but a tale full of monstrous exaggerations, though founded on this, was spread by the accompanying troop among our soldiers.  A murmur arose, the city was the prey of pestilence; already had a mighty power subjugated the inhabitants; Death had become lord of Constantinople.

I have heard a picture described, wherein all the inhabitants of earth were drawn out in fear to stand the encounter of Death.  The feeble and decrepid fled; the warriors retreated, though they threatened even in flight.  Wolves and lions, and various monsters of the desert roared against him; while the grim Unreality hovered shaking his spectral dart, a solitary but invincible assailant.  Even so was it with the army of Greece.  I am convinced, that had the myriad troops of Asia come from over the Propontis, and stood defenders of the Golden City, each and every Greek would have marched against the overwhelming numbers, and have devoted himself with patriotic fury for his country.  But here no hedge of bayonets opposed itself, no death-dealing artillery, no formidable array of brave soldiers—­the unguarded walls afforded easy entrance—­the vacant palaces luxurious dwellings; but above the dome of St. Sophia the superstitious Greek saw Pestilence, and shrunk in trepidation from her influence.

Raymond was actuated by far other feelings.  He descended the hill with a face beaming with triumph, and pointing with his sword to the gates, commanded his troops to—­down with those barricades—­the only obstacles now to completest victory.  The soldiers answered his cheerful words with aghast and awe-struck looks; instinctively they drew back, and Raymond rode in the front of the lines:—­“By my sword I swear,” he cried, “that no ambush or stratagem endangers you.  The enemy is already vanquished; the pleasant places, the noble dwellings and spoil of the city are already yours; force the gate; enter and possess the seats of your ancestors, your own inheritance!”

An universal shudder and fearful whispering passed through the lines; not a soldier moved.  “Cowards!” exclaimed their general, exasperated, “give me an hatchet!  I alone will enter!  I will plant your standard; and when you see it wave from yon highest minaret, you may gain courage, and rally round it!”

One of the officers now came forward:  “General,” he said, “we neither fear the courage, nor arms, the open attack, nor secret ambush of the Moslems.  We are ready to expose our breasts, exposed ten thousand times before, to the balls and scymetars of the infidels, and to fall gloriously for Greece.  But we will not die in heaps, like dogs poisoned in summer-time, by the pestilential air of that city—­we dare not go against the Plague!”

A multitude of men are feeble and inert, without a voice, a leader; give them that, and they regain the strength belonging to their numbers.  Shouts from a thousand voices now rent the air—­the cry of applause became universal.  Raymond saw the danger; he was willing to save his troops from the crime of disobedience; for he knew, that contention once begun between the commander and his army, each act and word added to the weakness of the former, and bestowed power on the latter.  He gave orders for the retreat to be sounded, and the regiments repaired in good order to the camp.