King Baldwin won his spurs while yet a boy, first by a short and successful expedition beyond the Jordan, and next by his Quixotic attempt on the town of Bozrah, in the Hauran. It was an attempt undertaken in haste and without reflection, and doomed from the outset to failure. A certain Armenian, governor of the town, influenced probably by some private motives of revenge, came to Jerusalem and offered to put the town in the hands of the Christians, if they wished to have it. There was still lingering, in spite of the fall of Edessa, some remains of the old spirit of conquest, and, regardless of the dangers which hovered round the kingdom, and of the pressing necessity for consolidating all their strength for purposes of defence, the Christians tumultuously demanded to be led to the attack, and an army was called together. Baldwin went with them. The troops assembled in the north and started full of vainglorious confidence. On the second day they found themselves surrounded with clouds of enemies, who assailed them with showers of darts. The country was a desert; as the only means of getting water the people had formed artificial cisterns, in which the winter rains were stored. But they were filled with dead bodies of locusts, and the water was too bad even for men parched with thirst. The Christians struggled on. They arrived at Edrei. Here, at least, they would get water. But at Edrei as well the water was all stored in large cisterns. They let down buckets by ropes: men hidden below cut the ropes. For four days they pressed on, however, while the enemy was reinforced hourly, and by day and night a continuous hail-storm of arrows and projectiles was showered into the camp, so that neither man nor beast among the Christians escaped without some wound. On the fourth day, they were cheered by the sight of the town of Bozrah, and by the discovery of certain small rills of water, which they fought for, and won at the cost of many lives. But in the dead of night a messenger of very evil tidings came into the camp. The wife of the Armenian had refused to be a partner in her husband’s treachery: the enemy occupied the city in force, and all hope was to be given over of taking it by storm. Then the Christians despaired. Some of them advised the king to mount the fleetest horse—that of John Gomain—in the camp, and make his way back alone, so that at least _his_ life might have a chance of being saved. But Baldwin, brave boy that he was, refused. He had not had the stories of valiant knights read to him for nothing. He would remain with his army and share their fate. At break of day the camp was broken up and the retreat commenced. Orders were given to lay the dead and the wounded, as they fell, on the beasts of burden, so that the enemy might not know the havoc they were making, and then, for Nûr-ed-dín was already on the alert, they started on their disastrous and melancholy retreat. The heat was oppressive; there