"The White Fiend! The Wrath of God!" screamed the Seljuks.
They tried to fly, but there was no way out, for the pass was choked
with dead below, and they must win or die, every living soul of their
host. So they turned at bay, joining their strength, and standing as
they could on heaps of dead bodies.
There, where they had slain, Gilbert slew them, and a thousand blades
flashed red in the red sunlight, in time with his; and there was a low,
sure sound of killing as steel went through flesh and bone and was
wrenched back to strike again. The Seljuks fought like madmen and like
wild beasts while they could; but in Gilbert's eyes there was the awful
light of victory, and his arm tired not, while rank upon rank the enemy
went down, and the Christians who still lived began to smite them from
behind. Then the pass was filled fuller than before, and a small red
river leaped down from stone to stone, following the channel to the
broad valley beyond, where nearly fifty thousand powerless men watched
it flowing among them. But they listened, too, and the Seljuk yell grew
fainter, because few were left, and there were few to cry out.
The shout of triumphant Christian men came ringing down the evening air
instead, and fear gave way to rejoicing and gladness; for though there
were many dead in the upper valley, and many strong knights and men-at-
arms, young and old, great and small, lay under the dead Seljuks who
had killed them, yet the great body of the army was alive, the strength
of the enemy was broken, and Gilbert had saved the King.
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