DEATH OF CHATILLON, 169

Nothing could have exceeded Chatillon’s fiery
valour. At one moment. he rushed like lhghtnine
among the Saracens, scattered them, and cut them
down. Then after reining back to the wall to draw out
the arrows and darts that adhered to his cuirass, he re-
turned to the charge, rising in his stirrups, and shout-
ing—‘ Chatillon, knights—Chatillon to the rescue.’

Meanwhile Bisset exerted himself with no less
courage and prowess. Scorning his danger, and
scorning his foes, he charged among the Saracens,
with shouts -of—‘ Holy Cross, Holy Cross! Down with
the pagan dogs! Down with the slaves of Mahound
andTermagaunt!’ Nothing could resist the vehemence
of his attack. In vain were all attempts to drag him
from his steed. Before his mighty battle-axe the
Saracens seemed to shake and fall as corn before the
reaper.

At length Chatillon, mortally wounded, dropt from
his horse, and the Saracen who had wounded him
springing forward seized the French knight’s steed,
which was one sheet of blood and foam. Bisset cleft
the Saracen’s skull to the teeth, and laughed defiantly
as he avenged the fall of his comrade-in-arms.

But Bisset was now alone; and his situation was
so utterly desperate, that any ordinary man, even in
that feudal and fighting age, would have relinquished
all hope and yielded to fate. The English knight had
no inclination to do anything of the kind. Rapidly
his eye measured the ground; as rapidly his brain
calculated the chances of reaching the orange grove ;
and as rapidly he arrived at the conclusion that he
could cut his way through the crowd. No sooner