i36 THE BOY CRUSADERS.

. Nothing, it seemed, could resist their progress; and
their path was tracked with blood. On they came,
scorntully scattering their foes till they reached the
bridge, when reining up where the Lord of Joinville
was posted, they stopped to take breath, after their
almost superhuman exertions. One had in his hand
a battle-axe; the other a sword. The battle-axe was
stained red with gore; the sword was hacked till it
looked ‘like a saw of dark and purple tint.’ One
was Bisset, the English knight, the other was the

Grand Master of the Temple. The horses of both ©
were wounded all over; the helmets of both were
deeply dinted. Bisset’s mail was almost hacked
to pieces; the Templar’s vestments were torn to
rags, his cuirass pierced, and his eye and face

_, wounded and bleeding.

‘You bring tidings of woe?’ said the Count of
Soissons.

‘Woe, in truth,’ answered Bisset; for the grand
master could not even muster voice to speak; ‘ of all
who rode into Mansourah this morning, not a man,
save ourselves, lives to tell the tale.’

‘And what of the Count of Artois, sir knight?’
asked Joinville.

‘I know not,’ replied Bisset, briefly ; ‘ the count
disappeared early, and doubtless died with the com-
rades of his jeopardy.’

‘No,’ interrupted the Count of Brittany, faintly,
‘he was drowned while attempting to save himself
by flight. At least,’ added he, ‘so I have been told.’

And in truth, to this day it is somewhat uncertain
what became of Robert, Count of Artois, though the