But the army was too confident to keep to the old path. They would go eastward and attack the Turks in their strongest place, even in Khorassan itself. Raymond let them have their own way, doubtless with misgiving and anxiety, and went with them. The town of Ancyra, in Paphlagonia, was attacked and taken by assault. All the people were put to death without exception. They went on farther, exulting and jubilant. Presently they found themselves surrounded by the enemy, who appeared suddenly, attacked them in clouds, and from all quarters. They were in a desert where there was little water, what there was being so rigorously watched over by the Turks that few escaped who went to seek it. They were marching over dry brushwood; the Turks set fire to it, and many perished in the flames or the smoke. There was but one thing to do, to fight the enemy. They did so, and though the victory seemed theirs, they had small cause to triumph, for division after division of their army had been forced to fly before the Turks. Still this might have been repaired. But in the night Count Raymond left them, and fled with his soldiers in the direction of Sinope. The news of this defection quickly spread. Bishops, princes, and knights, seized with a sudden panic, left baggage, tents and all, and fled away in hot haste. In the morning the Turks prepared again for battle. There was no enemy. In the camp was nothing but a shrieking, despairing multitude of monks, and women, and children. The Turks killed remorselessly, sparing none but those women who were young and beautiful. In their terror and misery the poor creatures put on hastily their finest dresses, in hopes by their beauty to win life at least, if life shameful, and hopeless, and miserable.