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.