“At least we will be among the last to die of thirst.”

Then they went back and watched the host break its camp, which it did with no light heart, for many of them knew of the danger in which they stood; moreover, the tale of Godwin’s vision had been spread abroad.  Not knowing where to go, they and Egbert, the bishop of Nazareth—­who was unarmed and rode upon a mule, for stay behind he would not—­joined themselves to the great body of knights who followed the king.  As they did so, the Templars, five hundred strong, came up, a fierce and gallant band, and the Master, who was at their head, saw the brethren and called out, pointing to the wineskins which were hung behind their saddles: 

“What do these water-carriers here among brave knights who trust in God alone?”

Wulf would have answered, but Godwin bade him be silent, saying: 

“Fall back; we will find less ill-omened company.”

So they stood on one side and bowed themselves as the Cross went by, guarded by the mailed bishop of Acre.  Then came Reginald of Chatillon, Saladin’s enemy, the cause of all this woe, who saw them and cried: 

“Sir Knights, whatever they may say, I know you for brave men, for I have heard the tale of your doings among the Assassins.  There is room for you among my suite—­follow me.”

“As well him as another,” said Godwin.  “Let us go where we are led.”  So they followed him.

By the time that the army reached Kenna, where once the water was made wine, the July sun was already hot, and the spring was so soon drunk dry that many men could get no water.  On they pushed into the desert lands below, which lay between them and Tiberias, and were bordered on the right and left by hills.  Now clouds of dust were seen moving across the plains, and in the heart of them bodies of Saracen horsemen, which continually attacked the vanguard under Count Raymond, and as continually retreated before they could be crushed, slaying many with their spears and arrows.  Also these came round behind them, and charged the rearguard, where marched the Templars and the light-armed troops named Turcopoles, and the band of Reginald de Chatillon, with which rode the brethren.

From noon till near sundown the long harassed line, broken now into fragments, struggled forward across the rough, stony plain, the burning heat beating upon their armour till the air danced about it as it does before a fire.  Towards evening men and horses became exhausted, and the soldiers cried to their captains to lead them to water.  But in that place there was no water.  The rearguard fell behind, worn out with constant attacks that must be repelled in the burning heat, so that there was a great gap between it and the king who marched in the centre.  Messages reached them to push on, but they could not, and at length camp was pitched in the desert near a place called Marescalcia, and upon this camp Raymond and his vanguard were forced back.  As Godwin and Wulf rode up, they saw him come in bringing his wounded with him, and heard him pray the king to push on and at all hazards to cut his way through to the lake, where they might drink—­ay, and heard the king say that he could not, since the soldiers would march no more that day.  Then Raymond wrung his hands in despair and rode back to his men, crying aloud: