Then they faced each other, and oh! the scene was strange.  Up on the slopes of Hattin the fight still raged.  There amidst the smoke and fires of the burning grass little companies of soldiers stood back to back while the Saracens wheeled round them, thrusting and cutting at them till they fell.  Here and there knights charged singly or in groups, and so came to death or capture.  About the plain hundreds of foot soldiers were being slaughtered, while their officers were taken prisoners.  Towards the camp of Saladin a company advanced with sounds of triumph, carrying aloft a black stump which was the holy Rood, while others drove or led mobs of prisoners, among them the king and his chosen knights.

The wilderness was red with blood, the air was rent with shouts of victory and cries of agony or despair.  And there, in the midst of it all, ringed round with grave, courteous Saracens, stood the emir, clad above his mail in his white robe and jewelled turban, facing the great Christian knight, with harness hacked and reddened, the light of battle shining in his fierce eyes, and a smile upon his stained features.

For those who watched the battle was forgotten—­or, rather, its interest was centred on this point.

“It will be a good fight,” said one of them to Godwin, whom they had suffered to rise, “for though your brother is the younger and the heavier man, he is hurt and weary, whereas the emir is fresh and unwounded.  Ah! they are at it!”

Hassan had struck first and the blow went home.  Falling upon the point of Wulf’s steel helm, the heavy, razoredged scimitar glanced from it and shore away the links from the flap which hung upon his shoulder, causing the Frank to stagger.  Again he struck, this time upon the shield, and so heavily that Wulf came to his knees.

“Your brother is sped,” said the Saracen captain to Godwin, but Godwin only answered: 

“Wait.”

As he spoke Wulf twisted his body out of reach of a third blow, and while Hassan staggered forward with the weight of the missed stroke, placed his hand upon the ground, and springing to his feet, ran backwards six or eight paces.

“He flies!” cried the Saracens; but again Godwin said, “Wait.”  Nor was there long to wait.

For now, throwing aside his buckler and grasping the great sword in both his hands, with a shout of “A D’Arcy!  A D’Arcy!” Wulf leapt at Hassan as a wounded lion leaps.  The sword wheeled and fell, and lo! the shield of the Saracen was severed in two.  Again it fell, and his turbaned helm was cloven.  A third time, and the right arm and shoulder with the scimitar that grasped it seemed to spring from his body, and Hassan sank dying to the ground.

Wulf stood and looked at him, while a murmur of grief went up from those who watched, for they loved this emir.  Hassan beckoned to the victor with his left hand, and throwing down his sword to show that he feared no treachery, Wulf came to him and knelt beside him.