“Sir,” he said, “let them take Tiberias, and I will tell you why. The city is mine, and my wife is in it; if it is lost no one, therefore, will lose so much as I. But if the Saracens take it, they will occupy it, and will not come here after us, and then I shall get it back again whenever I please. Now I prefer to lose my city for a time than that the whole country should be lost, and between this place and Tiberias there is not a drop of water. We shall all die of thirst before we get there.” Thereupon, quoth the Master of the Templars, “Here is some of the hair of the wolf.” But Raymond took no notice of this offensive remark. “If it is not exactly as I have said,” he went on, “take my head and cut it off.” All agreed that the advice given was sound and just, except the Master of the Templars, who in his blind rage against Raymond could not agree that anything he said was right. And in the night he went to the king’s tent, just as he was going to bed. “Do you believe,” he said, “in the advice of Raymond? It was given for the sole purpose of bringing shame and disgrace upon us all.... Strike your tents, call to arms, and march at once.” The king who owed to this man his crown, and the money with which the army was raised, obeyed immediately, and to the grief and surprise of the barons, the order was given to break up the camp. And on this sad night, the 1st of July 1187, the Christian host marched in silence and sadness to its fate. The Count of Tripoli led the first division; in the centre was the king with the Holy Cross, borne by the Bishops of Acre and Lydda; and the Templars, with Balian of Ibelin, brought up the rear. The whole army consisted of twelve hundred knights, a considerable body of light horse, and about twenty thousand foot. The words of Count Raymond proved exactly true: there was no water at all on the way. The Christians were harassed by the Turkish cavalry, by the heat of the day, by the clouds of dust, and by the burning of the grass under their feet, which was set fire to by the enemy as they marched along. They halted for the night, and the camp of the Saracens was so close to that of the Christians that “you could have seen a cat run from one to the other.” It was a night of dreadful suffering for want of water, and when the morning dawned some of those who could bear their sufferings no longer went over to the camp of Saladin, and threw down their arms, begging for a drink of water. “Sir,” said one of these deserters to Saladin, “fall on them—they cannot help themselves—they are all dead already.” King Guy, in hopes of ending the sufferings of his men by victory, gave the signal for the battle to commence. It was lost as soon as begun. For men, who had not quenched their thirst for nearly four and twenty hours, had no ‘last’ in them. The knights, as usual, fought manfully, but even these soon gave way. All round them was an arid plain or arid rocks,