The moment the drawbridge touched the battlement there sprang up before it four of his strongest captains, each armed with a mighty ax; and, while Simon with the keen edge of his scimitar severed the ropes by which the drawbridge had been lowered, his four captains plied their axes with such good effect that ere the Romans could come rushing across to prevent it, the whole bridge, cut clean off from the battlement, swung downwards, and its living freight were hurled precipitately through forty feet of air to the rocky ground below, where they lay a struggling, helpless mound of heads, arms, and legs, which in the next moment bristled all over with arrows shot at them by the delighted Jewish archers. “Bring on your next tower,” cried Simon mockingly, “and we’ll deal with it in like fashion.” Among the few who contrived to limp painfully away to a place beyond reach of the enemy’s fire was Crispus, bruised, dizzy, white-faced, with a dozen arrowheads embedded in his flesh. Sitting down, he proceeded to extract these barbs, and, the means being at hand, he anointed his wounds and bound them with linen swathings, in which task he was engaged when Titus came up. “Now, the gods be praised, you live. But you are wounded; there must be no more fighting for you to-day. Hither, two of you! Lay the noble Crispus upon a buckler, and carry him back to camp.” But Crispus vowed he was not so hurt as to necessitate his immediate removal. “Mere flesh-wounds, though I confess I am somewhat dazed by my fall. Let me rest for an hour in this cool shade, and I’ll be ready for the fray again.” “Well, as thou wilt. Farewell awhile. I am beginning to like this Simon; he is a foe worth fighting.” Simon’s admirable tactics seemed to have a discouraging effect upon the legionaries. At any rate the attack began to languish. The noontide sun was now streaming directly upon the faces of the Romans, dazzling the eyes of the archers and slingers, and marring the accuracy of their aim. The heat of the day, the clouds of dust, the toil of war had produced among the besiegers the agony of a raging thirst, a thirst which they had no means of quenching. The _posca_--the water, sharpened with vinegar--which every soldier was wont to carry with him in a leathern bottle, had long since been drained to the last drop, and no further supply was at hand. Crispus, still faint and dazed, reclined against the agger. “O, for water!” he murmured. “There is none in all the host,” remarked a soldier standing by. “Men are offering a gold piece for a cup of water.” “And the enemy have become aware of our want,” said a second soldier. “See! they are holding up vessels of water, and wastefully spilling it in mockery at our distress.” Titus with a troubled face came up at that moment.