and refusing to give up either the merchants or their goods when Saladin demanded them.  This conduct of an insolent petty chieftain stung the Sultan to the quick, and he swore that he would slaughter Raynauld with his own hand, no matter how, or when, or where he found him.  Both armies prepared for war.  Under the weak King of Jerusalem was the very flower of the Christian chivalry.  He foolishly compelled them to undergo a long, exhausting march, in the scorching sun, and then, without water or other refreshment, ordered them to encamp in this open plain.  The splendidly mounted masses of Moslem soldiers swept round the north end of Genessaret, burning and destroying as they came, and pitched their camp in front of the opposing lines.  At dawn the terrific fight began.  Surrounded on all sides by the Sultan’s swarming battalions, the Christian Knights fought on without a hope for their lives.  They fought with desperate valor, but to no purpose; the odds of heat and numbers, and consuming thirst, were too great against them.  Towards the middle of the day the bravest of their band cut their way through the Moslem ranks and gained the summit of a little hill, and there, hour after hour, they closed around the banner of the Cross, and beat back the charging squadrons of the enemy.

But the doom of the Christian power was sealed.  Sunset found Saladin Lord of Palestine, the Christian chivalry strewn in heaps upon the field, and the King of Jerusalem, the Grand Master of the Templars, and Raynauld of Chatillon, captives in the Sultan’s tent.  Saladin treated two of the prisoners with princely courtesy, and ordered refreshments to be set before them.  When the King handed an iced Sherbet to Chatillon, the Sultan said,” It is thou that givest it to him, not I.”  He remembered his oath, and slaughtered the hapless Knight of Chatillon with his own hand.

It was hard to realize that this silent plain had once resounded with martial music and trembled to the tramp of armed men.  It was hard to people this solitude with rushing columns of cavalry, and stir its torpid pulses with the shouts of victors, the shrieks of the wounded, and the flash of banner and steel above the surging billows of war.  A desolation is here that not even imagination can grace with the pomp of life and action.

We reached Tabor safely, and considerably in advance of that old iron-clad swindle of a guard.  We never saw a human being on the whole route, much less lawless hordes of Bedouins.  Tabor stands solitary and alone, a giant sentinel above the Plain of Esdraelon.  It rises some fourteen hundred feet above the surrounding level, a green, wooden cone, symmetrical and full of grace—­a prominent landmark, and one that is exceedingly pleasant to eyes surfeited with the repulsive monotony of desert Syria.  We climbed the steep path to its summit, through breezy glades of thorn and oak.  The view presented from its highest peak was almost beautiful.  Below, was