He had time to think in jubilation that he had given a frightening, difficult order, and the men had obeyed. Hundreds of knights and men-at-arms were plummeting down this perilous slope because he had told them to. _If I die today, I die a leader._ But would they reach the valley in time to save Charles d'Anjou? While they rushed and fell and fought their way through this forest, that battle line of Saracens was galloping over easy, rolling ground with only Charles's archers to impede them. Just now Simon was crashing through woods so thick he could not see the battlefield. Then there was light ahead and a meadow of brown grass. Brillant broke through the brush at the bottom of the slope. The red-turbaned line was a little past the place where Simon had come out. They were riding those light, fast Saracen horses. Where were the lines of crossbowmen? Gone--and now Simon saw bodies scattered on the ground where the foot archers had stood. Charles's banner was still on the same hilltop. In moments the Saracens would be upon him. "Faster! Faster!" Simon shouted, slapping Brillant's neck as the huge war-horse ran at top speed to overtake the Saracen line. * * * * * Daoud charged on, his eyes fixed on the crowned figure under the red and black banner. The pounding of hoofbeats in the air all around him was suddenly louder than he thought possible. He had been hearing the ululating, high-pitched war cries of his men, but now heard screams of pain and shouts of battle and deeper war cries, voices shouting in French. Coming from the right flank. He turned. He glimpsed a purple banner rushing toward him. A white and red banner along with it. The horse beside his was thrown against him by a blow that all but knocked him senseless. Caught between the two horses' flanks, his right leg felt as if it were being crushed. As pain shot up into his hip, he reeled dizzily in the saddle and clutched the reins till his left arm ached, his right holding his saif aloft so as not to stab one of his own men. His horse fell against the one on his other side. All around him horses and riders were thrown to the ground. The Sons of the Falcon were flung about wildly, their forward momentum broken by some unimaginable force that had hurled itself upon them. At the sight, he felt a giant hand reach into his chest and tear his heart out. The Sons of the Falcon were buried under an avalanche of mail-clad Frankish warriors riding huge armored war-horses. _My God, my God! Why are you doing this to us?_ He wanted to fling himself down from his horse and smash himself on the ground, screaming out his grief. In an instant he had been flung from joy to the very darkest pit of despair. In an instant he saw that everything was lost. His staring eyes were dry. This was all too sudden, too shocking, even for tears. Where had these devils of Franks come from?