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.