d by assault,
and on Friday, at three in the afternoon, the day and even the hour
of the death of the Son of God, Godfrey de Bouillon planted his
standard on the walls, the first of the noble army of Crusaders.

Thus, four hundred and sixty years after the conquest of Christian
Jerusalem by the Mahometan, Caliph Omar, it was delivered from the
yoke of the false prophet.

Seventy thousand Moslems were slain by the sword; for three whole
days the massacre continued, until each worshipper of Mahomet had
been sought out amidst the hiding places of the city--full of
secret nooks and corners--and put to death.

And now, after this bloody sacrifice--the fruit of mistaken
zeal--the Christians proceeded to accomplish their vow, with every
mark of penitence. With bare heads and bleeding feet they mounted
the Via Dolorosa (the sorrowful way) and wept where the great
sacrifice had been offered for their sins. They literally bedewed
the sacred soil with their tears.

So strange a union of fierceness and piety may well astonish us,
but our office is to relate the facts.

It was over, this strange but touching act of devotion, and the
sacred hill was partially deserted. Here and there a group of
weeping penitents lingered, and on the spot where tradition
asserted the cross to have been raised, many were seen yet waiting
their turn to salute the ground reverently with their lips.

Two knightly warriors, a father and a son, who had just performed
this act of devotion, arose together, and as they gained their
feet, observed their immediate predecessor in the pious act,
awaiting them, as if he wished to accost them.

They were all, as we have seen, bareheaded, neither did they wear
any armour or weapons--all resistance had ceased, and with it all
warfare, before the ceremony of the day had begun.

"Father," said young Edward, "it is my deliverer."

The Knight of the Holy Sepulchre beckoned them to follow, and
together they gained the outskirts of the crowd.

Etienne de Malville has greatly changed since we last beheld him.
In the place of the sprightly, impetuous youth, our readers must
imagine a warrior, past the middle age; one whose scanty hair was
already deeply tinged with gray. Thirty years had left many
wrinkles on his brow; but where impatience and fiery temper had
once sat visible to all, age and experience had substituted
self-control and wisdom.

"I have to thank thee, my valiant brother in arms, for the life of