ting in the
dark; ghostly horsemen looming and vanishing suddenly in the half-light;
and in the lull the querulous howling of wild beasts disappointed.

To their full days succeeded their empty days, when they were alone with
the desert and the sun. Then hunger and thirst assailed them, serpents
bit them, stinging flies drove men mad, the sand burnt their feet
through steel and leather. They lost more this way than by Saracen
ambush, and lost more hearts than men. This was a time for private
grudges to awaken. Hatred feeds on such dry meat. In the empty watches
of the night, in the blistering daytime, under the white sky or the deep
violet, Des Barres remembered his struck face, De Gurdun his stolen
wife, Saint-Pol his dead brother, and the Duke of Burgundy his forty
pounds.

It must be said that Richard stretched his authority as far as it would
go. His direct aim was to reach Joppa with speed, and thence to strike
inward over the hills to the Holy City. It was against sense to attack
this enemy hugging the woody heights; but as time went on, as he lost
men and heard the muttering of those who saw them go, he understood that
if he could tempt Saladin into close battle upon chosen ground it would
be well. This was a difficult matter, for though (as he knew) the
Saracen army followed him in the woods, it kept well out of sight. None
but the light horsemen showed near at hand, and their tactics were to
sting like wasps, and fly--never to join battle. At last, in the swamp
of Arsuf, where the Dead River splays over broad marshes, and goes in a
swamp to the sea-edge, he saw his chance, and took it.

Here a feint, carried out by Gaston of Bearn with great spirit, brought
Saladin into the open. The Christians continued their toilsome march,
Saladin attacked their rear; and for six hours or more that rearguard
fought a retreating battle, meeting shock after shock, striking no
blow, while the centre and the van watched them. This was one of the
tensest days of Richard's iron rule. De Charron, commanding the rear,
sent imploring messengers--'For Christ's love let us charge, sire, we
can bear no more of this.' He was answered, 'Let them come on again.'
Then Saint-Pol, seeing one of the chances of his life, was in open
mutiny of the tongue. 'Are we sheep, then?' Thus he to the French with
Burgundy. 'Is the King a drover of cattle? Where is the chivalry of
France?' Even Richard's friends grew fretful: Champagne tossing his
head,