There were no more adventures before Acre was reached. The ancient town was closely beleaguered by the Crusaders, but little progress had been made. A change came over the spirit of the attackers when Cœur de Lion arrived. Up rose a great wooden castle to top the walls; here and there huge catapults hurled missiles into the town; while beneath the pent-houses was heard the sound of pick and spade as the sappers undermined the walls. Now ague seized the king, but his ardent spirit would not let him rest. Carried in a litter to the trenches, he himself pulled a bow against the Saracens on the ramparts, and by example, stirring words, and promises of reward encouraged his soldiers to press the siege with all possible vigour. Early in July the town was yielded, and in the first moment of success bickerings began amongst the Christian leaders. When the Crusaders entered the city, Richard perceived Leopold of Austria’s flag planted side by side with his own on St. George’s Mount. “Who has dared,” he said, laying his hand upon the Austrian standard, and speaking in a voice like the sound which precedes an earthquake, “who has dared to place this paltry rag beside the banner of England?” “It was I, Leopold of Austria.” “Then shall Leopold of Austria presently see the rate at which his banner and his pretensions are held by Richard of England.” So saying, he pulled up the standard-spear, splintered it to pieces, threw the banner itself on the ground, and placed his foot upon it. “Thus,” said he, “I trample on the banner of Austria.” In these words does Sir Walter Scott recount the story. Peace was ultimately made between the two, but Richard had made another foe, who was soon to take ample revenge on the haughty island king. The fame of Richard dwarfed that of every knight who wore the Cross in Palestine, and the bruit of his valorous deeds made him a terror to every Saracen in the land. For years after, an Arab would cry to the steed that stumbled, “Fool, dost thou think thou sawest King Richard?” But the odds were fearfully against him. Every day disease thinned his ranks, and in the long march from Acre along the coast his men suffered terribly, though they turned in wrath and smote, hip and thigh, the Saracens who harried them. Barely, too, did Richard escape the daggers of the assassins sent to do their murderous work by the Old Man of the Mountain, who dwelt at Lebanon. One of them entered Richard’s tent, and was about to strike when the English king caught up the stool on which he had been sitting, and with it crashed in his assailant’s skull. No wonder men believed that he bore a charmed life.