The Moslems scorched us with Greek fire. As rain upon a funeral pyre
Their arrows hissed in sheets upon the smoking scrub. "Go on!" "Retire!"
Our rabble cried, starting aside like broken bows; they tried to hide,
Split, fled for refuge to a hill, did nothing while the Templars died.
When all was lost I cut my way out through the thicket of the fray,
And galloped for Jerusalem to adjure Guy's Queen to stand at bay.
In this last desperate passage each proud noble still opposed his friend.
A little while and we were penned, and yet a little while a breach
Was made. Jehovah's chosen seat was tottering, but no Paraclete
Came down to comfort us. I made some sallies. Then the Queen would treat.