But he saw that it was a desperate
case and that all was lost, and no more of his army were coming up to
the rescue, because the narrow pass was choked with dead. So he began
to sing the penitential psalms in time with the swinging of his sword.
It was towards evening, for the days were short, and the westering sun
suddenly poured its light straight into the gorge and upon the rising
ground above. Some of the Christians looked up out of the carnage, and
the King turned his eyes that way when he could spare a glance, and
suddenly the sun flashed back from the height, as from golden and
silver mirrors quickly moving, and foremost was an azure shield with a
golden cross flory, and the Christians knew it well. Then a feeble
shout went up from the few who lived.
"The Guide of Aquitaine!" they cried.
But they were not heard, for suddenly there was a louder cry from the
Seljuks, and it was not their war-yell, but something like a howl of
fear.
"The Wrath of God! The White Fiend!"
For they were caught in their own trap, and death rose in their eyes.
On the low heights above the gorge a thousand Christians had formed in
ranks quickly, with lance lowered and sword loose in sheath. A moment
later, and a steel cap went whirling through the air, glancing and
gleaming in the sun, till it fell among the enemy below, and then came
the sharp command, the leader's single word:
"Charge!"
The Seljuks heard the terrible, quick clanking of armour as the great
troop began to move, and the Guide of Aquitaine swept down in a storm
of steel, bareheaded, his fair hair streaming on the wind, his eyes on
fire in the setting sun, his great sword high in air, the smile of
destruction on his even lips.
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