And now, as it were by enchantment, wild armed men seemed to arise from every part of the city. From every mass of ruin, from every crumbling temple and mouldering mansion, from every catacomb and cellar, from behind every column and every obelisk, upstarted some desperate warrior with a bloody weapon. The massacre of the Seljuks was universal. The horsemen dashed wildly about the ruined streets, pursued by crowds of footmen; sometimes, formed in small companies, the Seljuks charged and fought desperately; but, however stout might be their resistance to the open foe, it was impossible to withstand their secret enemies. They had no place of refuge, no power of gaining even a moment’s breathing time. If they retreated to a wall it instantly bristled with spears; if they endeavoured to form, in a court, they sank under the falling masses which were showered upon them. Strange shouts of denunciation blended with the harsh braying of horns, and the clang and clash of cymbals and tambours sounded in every quarter of the city.
‘If we could only mount the walls, Ibrahim, and leap into the desert!’ exclaimed Hassan Subah to one of his few remaining comrades; ‘‘tis our only chance. We die here like dogs! Could I but meet Alroy!’
Three of the Seljuks dashed swiftly across the open ground in front, followed by several Hebrew horsemen.
‘Smite all, Abner. Spare none, remember Amalek,’ exclaimed their youthful leader, waving his bloody scimitar.
‘They are down; one, two, there goes the third. My javelin has done for him.’
‘Your horse bleeds freely. Where’s Jabaster?’
‘At the gates; my arm aches with slaughter. The Lord hath delivered them into our hands. Could I but meet their chieftain!’
‘Turn, bloodhound, he is here,’ exclaimed Hassan Subah.
‘Away, Abner, this affair is mine.’
‘Prince, you have already slain your thousands.’