“Alas! alas!  Oh!  Lord God, alas!  We are dead, and Thy Kingdom is lost.”

That night none slept, for all were athirst, and who can sleep with a burning throat?  Now also Godwin and Wulf were no longer laughed at because of the water-skins they carried on their horses.  Rather did great nobles come to them, and almost on their knees crave for the boon of a single cup.  Having watered their horses sparingly from a bowl, they gave what they could, till at length only two skins remained, and one of these was spilt by a thief, who crept up and slashed it with his knife that he might drink while the water ran to waste.  After this the brethren drew their swords and watched, swearing that they would kill any man who so much as touched the skin which was left.  All that long night through there arose a confused clamour from the camp, of which the burden seemed to be, “Water!  Give us water!” while from without came the shouts of the Saracens calling upon Allah.  Here, too, the hot ground was covered with scrub dried to tinder by the summer drought, and to this the Saracens set fire so that the smoke rolled down on the Christian host and choked them, and the place became a hell.

Day dawned at last; and the army was formed up in order of battle, its two wings being thrown forward.  Thus they struggled on, those of them that were not too weak to stir, who were slaughtered as they lay.  Nor as yet did the Saracens attack them, since they knew that the sun was stronger than all their spears.  On they laboured towards the northern wells, till about mid-day the battle began with a flight of arrows so thick that for awhile it hid the heavens.

After this came charge and counter-charge, attack and repulse, and always above the noise of war that dreadful cry for water.  What chanced Godwin and Wulf never knew, for the smoke and dust blinded them so that they could see but a little way.  At length there was a last furious charge, and the knights with whom they were clove the dense mass of Saracens like a serpent of steel, leaving a broad trail of dead behind them.  When they pulled rein and wiped the sweat from their eyes it was to find themselves with thousands of others upon the top of a steep hill, of which the sides were thick with dry grass and bush that already was being fired.

“The Rood!  The Rood!  Rally round the Rood!” said a voice, and looking behind them they saw the black and jewelled fragment of the true Cross set upon a rock, and by it the bishop of Acre.  Then the smoke of the burning grass rose up and hid it from their sight.

Now began one of the most hideous fights that is told of in the history of the world.  Again and again the Saracens attacked in thousands, and again and again they were driven back by the desperate valour of the Franks, who fought on, their jaws agape with thirst.  A blackbearded man stumbled up to the brethren, his tongue protruding from his lips, and they knew him for the Master of the Templars.