"Father!" cried out Mary, in protest.
"No," said the Greek, still smiling, "I will not give you away against your will. If not he, whom? Does the Moslem Iftikhar find favor? Religion sits light in this strange Sicily."
But Mary shook her head angrily.
"Ah, then you perhaps were glad when young Richard of Cefalu came to-day. But he is no poet like De Valmont. His manners may prove as rough as his blows."
"I will not give myself to a chamberlain or a troubadour. Shall I receivecansoswhen my hair is gray, or my face wrinkled? If I wish soft manners, let it be one of the eunuch-courtiers about the Emperor's palace."
The Cæsar laughed softly. "You have seen this Richard but little; he saved us both; we owe him all gratitude. He shall come often. I am a shrewd judge of men, and read their faces. His I like well. Just now he thinks De Valmont has you snared, and is very sorrowful. But no trial harms the lover. To-day he worships your face, as do all. Later let us see if he looks deeper, and loves you with all your faults!"
"My faults?"
"Yes," with another soft laugh, "you are over-fond of the applause, and glitter, and whir of admiration. You know your face is very fair to see, and love to let men see it. And though in action you are often prudent and demure, yet—as on that night at Cefalu—you are like a coiled spring,—such as moves the singing bird of the Emperor: one touch will make you flash forth in some madness. But beneath all I know you are pure and strong, and will make a noble woman."
"You temper praise with blame, my father," was her answer.
"Now let me sup and go to rest; and while I drink, take your lute and sing. Not from the choruses of Æschylus; nor Pindar nor Anacreon: sing me Proclus's hymn to the Muses, the last pagan poem in our Greek, which is worthy to stand beside our best; and the burden of the hymn, too, fits with my mood to-night."
So Mary took up the lute, let her fingers wander over the strings, and then, while the fountain babbled accompaniment, sang sweet as a silver bell:—
"Glory and praise to those sweet lamps of Earth,The nine fair daughters of Almighty Jove:Who all the passage dark to death from birthLead wandering souls with their bright beams of love."Through cares of mortal life, through pain and woe,The tender solace of their counsel saves:The healing secrets of their songs foregoDespair: and when we tremble at the waves"Of life's wild sea of murk incertitude,Their gentle touch upon the helm is pressed,Their hand points out the beacon star of good,Where we shall make our harbor and have rest:—"Hear, heavenly Sisters, hear! O ye who knowThe winds of wisdom's sea, the course to steer;Who light the flame that lightens all below,And bring the spirits of the perfect there,"Where the immortals are, when this life's feverIs left behind as a dread gulf o'erpassed,And souls, like mariners, escaped forever,Throng on the happy foreland, saved at last!"
"Glory and praise to those sweet lamps of Earth,The nine fair daughters of Almighty Jove:Who all the passage dark to death from birthLead wandering souls with their bright beams of love.
"Through cares of mortal life, through pain and woe,The tender solace of their counsel saves:The healing secrets of their songs foregoDespair: and when we tremble at the waves
"Of life's wild sea of murk incertitude,Their gentle touch upon the helm is pressed,Their hand points out the beacon star of good,Where we shall make our harbor and have rest:—
"Hear, heavenly Sisters, hear! O ye who knowThe winds of wisdom's sea, the course to steer;Who light the flame that lightens all below,And bring the spirits of the perfect there,
"Where the immortals are, when this life's feverIs left behind as a dread gulf o'erpassed,And souls, like mariners, escaped forever,Throng on the happy foreland, saved at last!"
The lute was still. Naught but the plash, plash of the fountain, the distant call of the birds. In through the marble tracery stole the silent panels of moonlight. Manuel Kurkuas sat long in deeper revery:—
"'Throng on the happy foreland, saved at last!'" he murmured; "ah! daughter mine, it is late: we must seek rest."
On the next day Richard rode again to Monreale, this time without Musa. But on the way, just as his horse brought him clear of the city, and he was speeding past the straggling Saracen village that stretched far up the hills to Baidha, the canter of two riders going at a mad pace thundered behind him, and he saw Louis de Valmont with Iftikhar Eddauleh close at his heels. The Provençal knight was bravely accoutred with silk mantle and boots of the latest fashion, and was bestriding a splendid white palfrey that made Richard shiver the tenth commandment then and there. The emir was no less gay in flaming scarlet vest, and trailing to the wind a red and yellow kaftan; while on his head tossed a great blue turban, whereon the gems were sparkling. Clearly the two had set forth independently, and had no mind for comradeship; for Richard soon learned that Iftikhar had put his horse to his speed to outstrip De Valmont, and the latter had ridden away from him. When the Provençal drew close upon Richard, however, the Norman, nowise anxious to be the last, spurred on also, and soon all three were in the race; which ended by De Valmont shooting ahead, and leaving the others side by side. As the knight vanished in a cloud of dust, Iftikhar reined in his good bay, and turned to Longsword.
"He passes us both, Cid Richard," quoth the emir, showing his white teeth, while he laughed.
"Truly, emir," was the answer, "they say there is no rider like him in all the South Country."
The Egyptian grinned again, a little angrily.
"Wallah!Let him go. I will reach Monreale soon enough. Not even Louis de Valmont shall cross my path save when I choose; neither he nor any other."
"You wax bold, my lord. And may I ask why you speak thus? Surely, it is no wound to your honor or mine that he chances to-day to outride us both."
Iftikhar laughed aloud, was silent a moment, then broke forth.
"Verily, Cid Richard, why ride we all, you, I, De Valmont, to Monreale!Ya!do you still ask why I say I 'let none cross me'?"
Richard's hand started towards his hilt.
"My Lord Iftikhar, we all seek the good favor of that incomparable lady, Mary Kurkuas."
The Egyptian's hand was on his cimeter also. "You speak well," came back his haughty answer; "but I speak to a young cavalier like yourself this word of warning—do not carry your passion too far. As for De Valmont, let him know this, good lance that he is: I am as sure a saddle as he, and I am more." Iftikhar leaned, as he rode, and half whispered to Richard, "Do you know the brotherhood of the Ismaelians?"
"The secret confederacy among Moslems, whose god is the dagger?"
Iftikhar spoke very low: "Know, O Norman, that I am a grand prior amongst the Ismaelians. Soon as Allah wills, I return to Syria. At my nod will be countless devotees, who rush on death as to a feast. Therefore I am not lightly to be thwarted by De Valmont even.Ya!"
And the emir laughed grimly. Richard kept silence, but swore in his heart that laugh should be like Roland's laugh at Ganelon,—a laugh that cost Roland his life.
When they came to the Palace of the Diadem, De Valmont was there before them, and had the lady's ear. He was telling of a marvellous hunting party that was on foot for the morrow, and how Count Roger's daughter, the young Countess Blanche, had especially bidden him to ride with the princess to the chase. And Richard, and Iftikhar also, had perforce to stand by, while Mary gave the Provençal her sweetest thanks, and promised him her glove to wear at the next jousting.
Sorry comfort it was to Longsword, especially as the princess gave him and the emir only enough of the talk to let them know she remembered they were there. As for Iftikhar, black jealousy drove him forth quickly. He salaamed himself away, and went tearing down the road to Palermo, uttering invocations to all the evil jinns, to blast Louis de Valmont's happiness for many a long year. But Richard would not own to such defeat; while Louis and Mary bartered merry small talk, he sat beside the old Cæsar, and found in the noble Greek, after the crust of dignity was broken, a man of the world who could tell his story.
And Richard found that Manuel had been a mighty warrior in his youth, though not after the Norman fashion. Richard learned with wonder how armies were marshalled according to careful rules in the military books of Nicephorus Phocus and Leo the Wise; how campaigns could be worked out, and armies shuffled about dexterously as chessmen, instead of depending on chancemêléesand bull valor. The Cæsar had stirring tales to tell of wars and paladins Richard had never before heard of,—Zimiskes and his terrible fight with Swiatoslaf the Russian, when St. Theodore himself, men said, led the charge through the pagan spear-hedge; of Basil, the terrible "Bulgarian slayer"; of the redoubtable champion, Diginis Akritas, grim lord of the Cilician Marches, the terror of the border Arabs; only Manuel's face clouded when he spoke of the present darkened fame of his people.
"I was with Romanus Diogenes," said he, bitterly, "at Manzikert, that fatal day when by the treachery of Andronicus, general of the reserve, our Emperor and all Asia Minor were betrayed to Alp-Arslan the Seljouk. Oh! Sir Frank—" and his dim eyes lighted, "never saw I harder fight than that: all that mortal men might, did we, riding down the Turkish hordes with sword and lance all day. But at nightfall we were surrounded, and the hosts rolled in around us. Treason had cut off our succor. Our divisions perished; our emperor was a prisoner; and the force that Alexius Comnenus led against you Normans at Durazzo was a shadow, a mockery, of what had been our army in the days when the Kalif of Bagdad trembled at the advance of the terrible Romans!"
When Richard left the palace it was in company with Louis de Valmont. Mary had been very gracious to the Norman in parting, and Manuel had urged him to come again. He was an old man, time was heavy on his hands; he was rejoiced to tell his tales to whoever would listen. But it was Louis who had the last word with the princess, Louis who whispered at the farewell some soft pleasantry that had a deeper ring than the common troubadour's praise and compliment. Longsword and the Provençal rode back towards Palermo side by side. De Valmont was in a happy enough mood to be very gracious.
"Heir, of Cefalu," said he, while they cantered stirrup to stirrup, "I did wrong yesterday. I thought you sought to cross me in a quest—what shame for me to avow it—after the hand of this lady. But to-day by your discreet carriage I see you have no such rashness. Who can but fall at the princess's feet, and sigh with passion! And her father, though a Greek, must have been a fine man once in the saddle."
The Provençal's words were like flint striking steel; Richard replied very slowly, sure warning that fire was near at hand.
"Sir Louis de Valmont, with our eyes on the lady, no marvel we possess only one thought. Yet not I only, but Iftikhar Eddauleh may cry 'Hold!' ere you carry this fair game to an end. The emir this day boasted to me he was become grand prior of the Ismaelians, the devotees of the dagger, and that not even so good a lance as you might cross his road when he minded otherwise."
The knight frowned blackly.
"The emir and I are friends no longer. The princess may love the gems in his turban, his Arabic verses; but not even here in Sicily will she wed an infidel. He has more than one woman in his harem in the city. Over his devotees and his own lance I lose little slumber."
"You say well, fair sir," said Richard; "yet honor forbids me to conceal it. I think you will not take Mary Kurkuas to the priest before you have tried the temper of my sword, though Iftikhar do what he lists."
"Take care, my brave lad!" cried the Provençal, dropping his jaw in a sneer. "I wish to splinter no lances against such as you."
"By St. Michael, I swear it; aye, and will make it good on my body!" And Richard raised his hand in an oath.
"Fie!" cried the other, pricking ahead. "In the morning you will repent of this folly. I can win no glory in a broil with you; which, if I follow up, will end with your funeral mass."
And before Richard could make reply De Valmont's white palfrey had swept far in advance, leaving the Norman with only his raging thoughts for company. In this state he rode into the town, seeking the house of Al-Bakri. But close by the door a noisy crowd was swelling: Pisan sailors, Greek peasants come to market, Moslem serving-lads, and chief of all several men-at-arms in leather jerkins and steel caps, all howling and shouting in half a dozen tongues, and making the narrow street and bare gray house-walls ring with their clamors.
"A hair, a hair of the wonderful horse of Cefalu!" was braying one of the men-at-arms in the very centre of the throng. "Pull out his tail; let him drag a cart! What knight ever rode such adestrer? And this is the best-loved steed of my Lord Richard! Like master, like horse!" While others shouted: "Give up the fellow! He is ours! We claim him for our master, Louis de Valmont. What need has your Lord Richard of ajongleur—mountebank himself?"
And then in the midst of the press, Longsword saw his old retainer Herbert, sitting upon Rollo; perched behind on the great steed a small, scared-looking man, with the little bright eyes and peaked nose of a mouse; with a strange dress of blue and red stripes, and hugging a great viol under his arm. So far the crowd had confined itself to noise; but it was pressing so madly around the entrance to the court, that the porter had hesitated to throw open the gate lest the mob press in with the rider. There was an angry glint in Herbert's eyes; and the veteran had his fingers round his hilt with the blade half drawn, while Rollo had tossed up his great black head, and was snuffing and pawing as if his hoofs were ready to fly out on his besetters.
"A thousand fiends!" cried Richard, pushing into the throng, "what have we here! Dogs, devils, back all of you!" And he struck right and left with his riding whip, making a red scar on more than one swarthy cheek. "Out of the way, rascals, or your heads pay for it!"
There was no resisting this menace. Rollo himself had struck out with his mighty hoofs, and a sailor went down upon the pavement with a groan. The crowd slunk back, cursing and threatening under breath; but no man wished to come to an issue with his betters.
"Now, Herbert," cried the Norman, "what means this? Has Satan uncovered the Pit, and his imps flown out? Who is this man with you?"
"May all the saints blast them!" and here the veteran doomed all his assailants to pitiless and eternal torment. "To be brief, good lord, this man is by name Theroulde, a right good fellow; as you see by his viol, ajongleur. Before your father fled England, I knew him well, when we both were younger. I found him as I rode by the quay, landed from a Pisan merchantman, and seeking to escape the men-at-arms of Louis de Valmont, who, seeing him a stranger and likely to prove a merry fellow, wished to carry him to the castle, willy-nilly, to give them sport over their cups; and this sailor gang fell in with them. Then when I saw that he did not like their greeting, and that he recognized me as an old comrade, I took him up behind me, and rode away; but this pack," with a contemptuous snap of the finger, "travelled behind us like the curs they are; and I think they would have learned how my sword could bite, had you not come up."
"Theroulde? Theroulde?" repeated Richard to thejongleur, who had leaped to the ground and stood bowing and scraping, but still hugging his beloved viol; "are you not son of that Taillefer, the brave minstrel to whom Duke William granted that he should ride first at Senlac, singing of Roland and Roncesvalles, and who died a cavalier's death that day?"
"I am his son, gracious lord," said the man, with another bow and wide grimace. "I am Theroulde of Mount St. Michael, and well I loved and served your father in the brave days of the English war."
"By the peacock," cried Longsword, "and what lucky saint sends you to Sicily, to enter my father's service once more, if you will?"
"Ah! lord," was the doleful answer, "glad I am to see Sicily; but no merry thing brings me hither. I was in the service of my dear Lord Henry, son of William the Bastard, and dwelt in his court at Mount St. Michael, with a warm nook by the fire and a flagon of good drink always mine for the wishing. But three years since I was driven out an exile, when William, the wicked 'Red King,' and Duke Robert besieged Henry their brother, and took the stronghold. So ever since I have wandered over Champagne and Burgundy and the Ile de France; and then I went down to Aquitaine and thence to Dauphiny. But I did not learn to love the chattering Provençals, who think songs of mawkish love better than our northernchansonsof valorous knights. Then I heard that your noble father had been blessed with a fair barony here in Sicily; and hither I came to seek his bounty, though I did not expect to find in his son so grand a cavalier."
Richard laughed a little sourly. Now he had a new grudge against Louis de Valmont; to the sins of the master had been added those of the men. A knight did not always as yet keep squires of as gentle blood as himself. De Valmont's crew of attendants were but little better than "villains." The insults to Herbert and Rollo were not to be forgiven in a moment. And in this new fury Richard rode into the courtyard; while Theroulde, delighted to be under friendly patronage, rattled on, rehearsing his wares.
"Know, most valiant sir, that I boast myself versed in all the noble histories of that wise Trojan priest, Dares, and of the rich Greek cavalier, Dictys of Crete; I can tell you all their tales of Sir Hector and of Sir Ulysses and of the fair and never too much praised Countess Medea. I have set in new verse the whole tale of Roland and Oliver, and how Count Ganelon betrayed them; and I can tell you the story of Oberon, king of faery, who was begotten by Julius Cæsar at the isle of Cephallenia, while he was at war with King Pompey."
So he would have run on forever had not Richard thrust him away and gone in to Musa, with a face dark as a thundercloud. Thejongleurwas left to the hospitality of the Moslem servants of Al-Bakri, who treated him kindly though he eyed them askance; for to his mind they all were servants of Apollin, the pagan demon of the sun. Presently a messenger went from Richard to the castle, where De Valmont lay, bearing a letter,—a letter which demanded of the Provençal that he either inflict summary chastisement on his men who had insulted Richard through his favorite horse, or make good the affront by a meeting face to face.
Richard spent the next two hours in the little court of the syndic, pacing moodily under the orange trees that stood around the fountain basin; while Musa lolled on the rugs upon the divan under the arcade, and tried to persuade his friend to sit down with him at chess.
"By the Mass, Musa," cried the Norman, twisting his mustache with nervous energy, while his eyes studied the black and white tiled pavement, "Moslem that you are, I had rather see Mary Kurkuas yours than De Valmont's. What with all the brave tales you tell of your sweethearts in Cordova and Granada, you must know the way to a woman's heart."
"Allah!" exclaimed the Spaniard, taking a cushion from the divan and flinging it merrily at his friend. "Do you not know, I am like the Arab youth who died fighting at Emesa?" said he. "I see the black-eyed girls, the houris looking at me; and one for love of whom all the world would die, beckons me, saying, 'Come hither quickly, for I love thee.' Not that I would slander the beauty of your Greek; but," with half a sigh, "he who has seen the maidens of Andalusia can long only for the houris of Paradise."
"You speak folly," cried the Norman, pettishly. "Where are your eyes?" But at this moment Hugh, the serving-lad who had gone to the castle with the cartel, returned.
"A letter from Sir Louis de Valmont," he announced.
It was a roll of parchment, written by some priest or monk, with only a rude mark over the signature, in another hand; for Louis with all his "gay" science was no clerk. It ran thus:—
"Louis de Valmont, Knight of Auvergne, to Richard Longsword, greeting: I am astounded that an unknighted 'bachelor' like yourself, who has won neither spurs, nor vassals, nor fame in arms, should venture to address me with such insolence. As for my men they had their frolic, and only a fool will quarrel about it. As for your defiance, I will win small honor by slaying a boy like yourself in the lists, as I could well do, and my honor is in no wise hurt when I say I will not meet you. Farewell."
Richard tore the parchment into shreds and strode to and fro in bootless fury.
"By the splendor of God!" cried he, stretching his arms aloft, "the day shall come when this Louis and all the spawn of his sinful house shall curse the hour he sent me this. So may Our Lady help!"
Musa could do nothing to comfort. Richard told his trials to Sebastian, just come down from Cefalu. And in Sebastian he found a counsellor very like to those of long-tormented Job.
"Ah! dear son, this is because all love is sorrow except it be the love of heaven. Says not the Apostle, 'Love not the world, neither the things in the world,'—"
"Not so," broke in Richard; "in loving Mary Kurkuas I love an angel of light."
Sebastian shook his head solemnly. "Dear son, this is a chastisement sent on you from heaven for forgetting your vow, now that you are come to man's estate. Often have I invoked my patron saint, Sebastian, by the arrows that pierced his side, that you would put by all these carnal lusts, this friendship for Musa, the paynim, and dedicate life and might to the freeing of the Holy City."
But Richard was in an impious mood that day. "I was a child when I took the vow. Let the saints smite me, if they will, only first let me humble De Valmont!"
"Alas!" came the answer, "they will indeed smite you, until in very agony for your sin you will plead to go to Jerusalem."
Richard's fury lasted more than one angry day, Musa's comforting counting for nothing. Sebastian's warnings—twanging the same old string—only made his rage the hotter. He wrote to Cefalu, saying it was all over with his suit, and received a letter dictated by his father (who wrote only with his battle-axe) that it was as well; he could marry a daughter of the Baron's old friend, the Count of Foix. William had not seen her, but she would bring a large dowry, and a messenger could sail with proposals for Toulouse at once. Richard returned answer that he could not marry the lady—she came within the forbidden degrees through some ancient alliance of his mother's house with that of Foix. But his heart burned more than ever. Then respite came: Count Roger was summoned to Campania by his nephew and suzerain Duke Roger Bursa, to help crush certain malcontent barons, and away he sailed, taking Iftikhar and his much-prized Saracen guard. With him also went Musa and Richard Longsword, who was finding Palermo a dreary place, and gladly bartered gloomy thoughts for hard campaigning.
Louis de Valmont remained. Every morn he fared to Monreale to bask under the smiles of Mary. Very pleasant these days to her. As Manuel had said, she was more than fond of the praise of men; knew her eyes darted madness, and was not ashamed to show them. Palermo was not Constantinople; no polished Greek as spoken in the circle of Psellus, the philosopher, and of Anna Comnena; no splendid state ceremonies. But life was free; men spoke of their loves and hates plainly; did not prattle friendship and misty compliment and stab in the dark. Yet in the end Louis's homage began to pall on her. She heard unpleasant stories touching him through Sylvana, her nurse, an indefatigable gossip-monger. The Provençal, she learned, was accounted a hard master to his men; his peers praised his courage, but not his courtesy; he had fought a duel in Catalonia with a baron, in a broil concerning the latter's lady; he had two Moslem sweethearts in Palermo; some said three. All these tales did not go to prosper Louis's suit, and he began to find the morning chatter growing dull and the princess meeting hiscansoswith sober and troublesome questions.
Manuel Kurkuas said little; he was a shrewd man, and knew it was easier to lead than to drive. What with De Valmont's hollow gallantry and boasting of his own great deeds, he fell daily in the daughter's eyes. Then one day two carrier pigeons fluttered to the casements of the Palermo castle, and Sylvana came to Mary itching with a tale. The princess had just bidden Louis farewell. His importunity was great, her perplexity greater; for she did not love the man, yet things had gone too far for her to dismiss him without bitterness and gossip all over the city.
"Hei, despoina!" quoth the old woman; "Bardas, the groom, is come from Palermo—a terrible story. Richard Longsword in deathly peril!" And Sylvana, sly sinner, who knew Mary better than Mary knew herself, had expected the start, and flush, and little cry. "No, by St. Basil, he is safe enough," protested she, consequentially. "He was with Count Roger in Italy in the war against William of Grantmesnil, who has turned rebel. Let him tell the whole tale himself. But the chief part is this: There was a castle which my Lord Count and his kinsman, Duke Roger Bursa, swore they would take, but it was defended as though held by very devils. The engines beat a breach in the walls, and the next thing was the storming. But to make the breach and to go through it are not the same thing, as Nicetas, who was my uncle's son, and fought in Syria, once told."
"I have heard that story," cried the lady, impatiently; "go on."
"Well, as I said, the breach was stoutly defended. My Lord Count orders up his boasted Saracen guard, and bids my Lord Iftikhar lead the storm: once, twice, they charge—are beaten back—the third time when ordered, say they are not fond of dying—too many comrades are fallen already. Then while the emir hung back, forward comes my Lord Richard and Musa, his friend; they will lead the storm. A few mad Franks follow them. They win the breach and the castle. St. Theodore must have aided. They say my Lord Richard had as many wounds as you have fingers, when they took him up. No, do not stare about thus: Bardas said he only lost a little blood. But they have made him a knight after the fashion of these Franks, by Duke Roger's own hand; and to Musa they gave I know not what presents. And now seeing that the rebels have sued for mercy, the Count is coming back with all his men, and sent off pigeons from Stromboli saying that he will arrive to-morrow."
To-morrow came and went, and De Valmont held aloof, half to Mary's satisfaction, half to her vexation. Nor did several succeeding days see him. But finally it fell out that he and his rival sallied forth from Palermo by different roads, and both came to Monreale and into the Princess's presence at about the same time. And now it was Louis's turn to let his sharp little beard curl up in impotent anger. For Mary gave never a glance to his high-peaked Anjou boots with which he swelled in pride, but only had eyes for the golden spurs that were twinkling significantly upon Longsword's heels, and the broad white belt that girt him.
"Ah! Sir Richard," cried she, with a pretty stress on the "sir," "now at last you will not deny that you can do a brave deed or two!"
The Norman blushed manfully; for praise from her lips was dearer than from Pope or Emperor.
"Dear lady," said he, humbly, "thanks to the valor of my good comrades, and the help of the blessed angel Michael, men are pleased to speak well of me."
"And the sword you wear," continued she, "it is not the one I saw glance so bright at Cefalu. Who gave it?" And she added, while Richard drew forth the weapon: "How long! How heavy! What magic letters are these upon the blade?"
Richard had bared a mighty weapon, which he held outstretched while the sun glinted on the long, polished steel, and the gold chased work on the guard shone bright.
"Know," he said proudly, "that from this weapon we Longswords take our name. This is 'Trenchefer,' passed from father to son, so far as memory may reach to the days when our house came down from the Northland with Duke Rollo, and hewed away our duchy from the weakling Emperor. Never has a Longsword carried this blade and endured captivity. Never has a hostile hand gripped its hilt; never has a first-born of my race"—Richard held his head still higher—"lacked a first-born who could not toss it like a twig." And he brandished the great gleaming blade on high. "As for these strange characters, they say they are an incantation, pagan no doubt, but it still holds good: a rune-song, they call it, which makes Trenchefer cut iron like wool and steel like fagots. Here in the hilt is the reliquary, set there by my pious grandfather to destroy the sin of the spell, and make it stronger; here is a tooth of St. Matthias, and a clot of the blood of St. Gereon the Martyr. All his life my father has borne this, and never yet has Trenchefer failed in the sorest need. Now that my father is old, and I a belted knight, I have taken Trenchefer to bear until my own first-born can wield it worthily."
Mary stepped beside him, took the hilt in both her little hands, and made shift to raise the great sword. It was very heavy. The blood mounted to her cheeks; she smiled, but bit her lips, and made a mighty effort. Once she raised the blade, then dropped it with a clang, and laughed merrily.
"Eu!Sir Richard," she cried in Greek, "what a pretty toy for a maid like myself! I will let you always swing it for me."
"It is not heavy," quoth the Norman, his iron wrist tossing it lightly.
"Not heavy!" was the reply. "You Franks are born, I half think, in armor; slaying is to you a pleasant art."
"And why not, sweet lady?" answered the other, seriously. "Is there anything better befitting a brave gentleman, after a noble life, than to be rocked to sleep in a fair battle with the swords clinking merry music above, and angels to convoy his soul?"
But at this moment De Valmont, who had stood by gnawing his mustachios all this while, stepped up and took the sword out of Richard's hand.
"Assuredly, Sir Richard," said he, holding up the sword, though truth to tell he found it nothing easy, "you have here a mighty weapon. You will be the thirteenth of Charlemagne's twelve peers, and contest the captaincy with Roland's self." He sheathed the sword, and laughed dryly.
There was no need for any special wits to see that Louis was seeking a quarrel at last.
"I trust it will be found keen enough to satisfy any who questionnowmy knighthood," came back the hot retort. But Mary intervened with haughty mandate:—
"Sir Louis! Sir Richard! what is this in my presence? How often have I bidden you be friends, if you would keep my favor! Must you brawl under my very eyes?"
"I cry pardon of Sir Richard," began the Provençal, feeling he had made a misstep; but Longsword cut him short.
"And I grant none; but this is no place. Let us begone!"
"I warn you!" cried De Valmont, in black fury, "if we meet, but one shall ride away. Hitherto you have crossed swords with weaklings, and I give you a proverb, 'Amongst the blind, the one-eyed man is king.'"
"And I return proverb for proverb," blazed back the Norman: "'It is well to let the sleeping dog lie.' Let God judge if I have sought this quarrel!"
"Sirs," commanded Mary Kurkuas, with her haughtiest gesture, "get you gone both, nor return till this strife be ended!" And she pointed towards the door.
Richard collected himself with a mighty effort.
"I obey, lady," was all he said; while he bowed, kissed the hem of her mantle, and stalked out of the palace. De Valmont did not follow him, but stood staring darkly about, as though wanting half his wits.
"Sir Louis," repeated the princess, still at her lordly poise, "did you not hear what I said?"
"Ah!Dona!beautiful mistress!" cried the Provençal, half threatening, half entreating; "what words are these? Depart? Will you dismiss me? By St. Martin, I swear life will be all night without you! Oh, pity, favor me; have mercy on my distress!"
Mary looked upon him, and saw that half his profession sprang from his troubadour gallantry; but the rest—the mad light in his eyes proved how genuine!
"Give me your hand!" raged on De Valmont, half beside himself. Then with a step nearer—"No, not your hand, your lips!"
Mary flushed in turn with her anger; quail she did not.
"Sir Louis, recollect yourself," she commanded sternly; "let what has slipped you be forgotten. I repeat—depart, or I call my father's servants; and come not again, until your quarrel with Richard Longsword be ended."
"Then, by Christ's wounds, I will have his life!" roared the Provençal with a great oath, and tore out of the room, leaving Mary quaking amid hysteric laughter.
When Manuel Kurkuas heard what had passed, he grew very grave.
"Enemies they have been since first they met here at Monreale," was his comment, "and now I fear they will strike friendship only in heaven, unless," he added dryly, "their sins be such—and they are many—they will perchance meet elsewhere."
So his daughter spent the remainder of the day in no little trepidation and sorrow; for it was no pleasant thing to feel that two gallant gentlemen, for whom she had cared much, were to risk immortal souls, perhaps on her account. About noon the next day, Sylvana came to her gleefully with the whole story.
"Ei, my lady," chattered she, "all Palermo is talking of it, and Bardas has brought me all they say. It is told that this morning Sir Richard went to the Cathedral, and confessed to a priest and received the host; then he set hand on a box of holy relics and swore something secret, but doubtless terrible. A little later, lo! in comes Sir Louis and does the very same. Then right in the porch of the church they came face to face, and Sir Louis broke out with revilings terrible to hear, and finally cried, 'You are not an equal fit to kiss my cheek; "villain" you are, or little better, who should kiss my spurs!' Whereupon Sir Richard gave him a great box on the ear, which nearly knocked him down, crying, 'This is the kiss I give you!' And then and there they would have drawn, but other gentlemen dragged them asunder by main force, and took them to Count Roger, who, when he found he could not compose their quarrel, demanded of each his knightly word that they would remain apart until the great tourney, which will be when the envoys from the Egyptian emperor come. Then the two will meet, and Our Lady guard their lives!"
Mary Kurkuas did not sleep soundly that night. Often as the dreams came to her, they took form of champions in armor, charging, charging, ever charging! And when she awoke, it was with the last words of De Valmont ringing in her ears, "By Christ's wounds, I will have his life!" A long time after all the palace was still, she arose, lit a taper, and knelt before a stiff little Byzantine painting of the Holy Mother that was by her bedside.
"O pure and blessed Lady," she prayed, "have mercy on me! Have mercy on them both! I have sinned in leading them on so madly; they have sinned in loving me so madly! Oh, pity, mercy; have compassion on us all!"
So ran her prayer. After a while she was a little comforted, and fell into troubled sleep.
News from over the sea,—from Italy! News that set old Sebastian declaiming, and wandering about all day with a mad fire in his eyes and a verse from Isaiah the prophet on his lips. For it was bruited abroad that a wonderful pilgrim had come from the East, Peter of Amiens, once a noble and a warrior, but one who had forsworn the world and gone to the Holy City to expiate his sins. Now he had returned, and stood before Pope Urban with messages from the down-trodden Patriarch of Jerusalem; also with a marvellous tale,—that Christ had appeared in vision to him, and bidden him summon the soldiers of the West to the deliverance of the City of God. And the Holy Father had believed, and given him letters bidding all men hear him and obey. Nor was that all. There was a great council of the Church soon to convene at Plaisance to move all Italy to go against the infidel; and if Italy were too sunken in her civil strifes and unknightly commerce, the Pope had sworn he would appeal to his own people, the French—"bold cavaliers so dear to God."
When Sebastian heard this tale, brought by a Genoese, he was all eagerness to take the next ship for Marseilles with Richard. "It was the acceptable day of the Lord; who was not for Him was against Him: beware lest the laggards endure the reproach of Deborah upon Reuben, that abode by his sheepfold, and Dan, who remained in his ships." But Richard only swelled with desire to see De Valmont prone upon the sands; and Musa smiled in his soft manner, saying, "Have not you Franks broils enough among yourselves, that you must seek Jerusalem?" Whereupon Sebastian had cried, "Ah! Child of the Devil, you seek to pluck away Richard's soul; but every night I wrestle with God in prayer, beseeching God He will sever this unholy friendship. And my faith does not fail!"
Musa gave no answer; silence was the stoutest armor against the churchman.
Presently all thoughts of Italy and France were chased from mind by the coming of the long-awaited embassy from the Egyptian kalif to Palermo. A great and splendid embassy it was, headed by no less a person than Hisham, son of Afdhal, vizier to the kalif Abul Kasim. There were long trains of stately Abyssinian eunuchs and negro guardsmen in gay liveries; a mighty glitter of scarlet and purple caftans, jewel-decked turbans, gold-sheathed cimeters, a present of dazzling gems for the Count and the Countess. The echo of the earthquake in France and Italy had been heard in Africa, and the kalif had been anxious to forestall the joining of the redoubtable Sicilian Count to the Crusade by early display of friendship. Then, too, it was told that the kalif had especial love for Count Roger, because in crushing the Sicilian emirs he had only chastised rebels, who had a little earlier cast off their fealty to the Cairo Emperor.
And Count Roger, bound to do his guests full honor, sent out his heralds over the length and breadth of Sicily, proclaiming a grand tournament. Forth went the messengers "crying the tourney," till their mules were dust-covered and their voices cracked. To the remotest Norman castle and Saracen village in the mountains they went, and man and maid made ready their best, and counted the days; for the Count had ordered there should be games and combats for Christian and Moslem alike.
The days sped slowly for Mary Kurkuas. De Valmont and Longsword were bound by pledge to Count Roger not to wait on her till after the tourney. Bitterly Mary reproached herself for her folly. Did not all Palermo know how she had given her glove to De Valmont? And Richard? Why had she held that cup to his lips that night at Cefalu? Mere gratitude? Was not that repaying her preserver with more than friendship? And was she not willing to pay? Such her questions—never answered. Poor little Countess Blanche, Count Roger's daughter, soon to be exiled as given in marriage to the king of Hungary, would have laughed with glee to have two such gallant cavaliers joust with her name on their lips. But Mary's heart told her that it was very wrong. Her father's health failed fast; she was filled with foreboding. Musa and Iftikhar were the only visitors at Monreale now. Musa was ever the same,—gentle, sweet-voiced, courtly, never unduly familiar. Iftikhar at times swelled with a passion that nearly betrayed him; but Mary was too accustomed to ardent lovers to take alarm. Yet at times, to her dismay, she saw he really held that their religion was no barrier between them, and that he would gladly have stood on equality with Richard and De Valmont. One day it befell that the fire in the emir nearly flashed out. He had paid a more than commonly florid compliment, and Mary twitted him.
"But you Moslems in truth cannot care much for women, for all your verses and praise; we are not even granted immortal souls by your law!"
"Oh, believe it not," cried the emir, hotly; "for in Paradise the true believer will rejoice in the company of all the wives of his mortal state!"
"Yes," interposed Musa, with a soft laugh. "He will if he desire them, otherwise not; and there are many husbands and many wives!"
The princess saw the frown that swept over the brow of the emir at this interference.
"Come, my lord," commanded she, pointing to the lute, "you shall sing to me! Sing of love, and mirth, and laughter, for I am in a doleful mood to-day."
But Iftikhar only frowned the more.
"O Brightness of the Heart!" he replied gloomily, "I too am not merry. Were I to sing, it would be Kalif Rahdi's poem, of which the burden runs, 'Man is but the child of woe!' You would not care for such melancholy?"
"Assuredly not," laughed the lady. "Then you shall play the minstrel, Sir Musa. First you shall tell us of those wonderful poets' gardens in your Spain; then you shall sing one of the songs that win the sighs and blushes in the harems of Seville or Granada." And she held out the lute.
Musa obeyed, tightened the strings, tinkled a few notes, and said in his musical, liquid Arabic:—
"Know, O lady, that we Spaniards are not like the Moslems of the East; we do not hide our wives and daughters in prison houses. To us marriage is born of true love, and he who would win love must be a poet; therefore all Andalusians are poets. Would you hear of the wooing of my mother? She was the daughter of the emir of Malaga, and on the day my father came to her father's court, he saw her in the gardens, dancing with her women; and his heart was as fire. Sleep left him. Three days he spent in sighs and sorrow, and on the fourth he stole under the garden wall and sang his passion: how she was lovelier than the Ez-Zahra, 'City of the Fairest'; her voice was sweeter than the murmur of the Guadalquiver glancing in the sun; her eyes more beautiful than the stars when they twinkle in the lake, and a smile from her lips surpassed all wine. Then, on the next night as he sang, she answered him in like manner in verse; how her love was strong as the Berber lion; his white teeth more precious than pearls; his head more beautiful than garlands of roses; and his words cut her heart more keenly than cimeters of Murcia. So my father rejoiced, for he knew he had won; and went boldly to the emir and demanded his daughter in marriage."
"And what are the songs which your poets sing by the Guadalquiver and the Darro?" asked the princess.
"Ah, lady," answered Musa, dreamily, "no true poet can sing his love-song twice. See; I will wish myself back at Cordova, in the orange groves I love so well, and will sing as move the genii of song." And the Spaniard ran his hands over the echoing strings, and sang in low, weird melody:—
"Sweet as the wind when it kisses the roseIs thy breath!Blest, if thy lips had but once on me smiled,Would be death!Give me the throat of the bulbul to singForth thy praise:Then wouldst thou drink the clear notes as they springAll thy days!Nard of far Oman's too mean for thy sweetness,Eagle wings lag at thy glancing eyes' fleetness;By thy pure beauty, bright gems lack completeness;Lady, ah, fairest!Were I a genie, with rapture I'd seize thee;I'd haste awayTo magic-wrought cavern, all jewelled and golden;There I'd stayWhile the long glad years with printless feet wheelingLeave no trace,Save only new beauty and soft love revealingIn thy face.The speeding of ages would breed us no sorrow;I'd shrink from no past, and dread naught of the morrow;The laugh in thine eyes, that alone I would borrow,Lady, ah, rarest!"
"Sweet as the wind when it kisses the roseIs thy breath!Blest, if thy lips had but once on me smiled,Would be death!Give me the throat of the bulbul to singForth thy praise:Then wouldst thou drink the clear notes as they springAll thy days!Nard of far Oman's too mean for thy sweetness,Eagle wings lag at thy glancing eyes' fleetness;By thy pure beauty, bright gems lack completeness;Lady, ah, fairest!
Were I a genie, with rapture I'd seize thee;I'd haste awayTo magic-wrought cavern, all jewelled and golden;There I'd stayWhile the long glad years with printless feet wheelingLeave no trace,Save only new beauty and soft love revealingIn thy face.The speeding of ages would breed us no sorrow;I'd shrink from no past, and dread naught of the morrow;The laugh in thine eyes, that alone I would borrow,Lady, ah, rarest!"
"Ai, Sir Musa," cried Mary, when the strings were still, "were you Louis de Valmont or even my Lord Iftikhar, I should say in my heart, 'How much you are my slave!' But to a Spaniard like yourself the making of such a song—it means nothing?"
"Nothing," answered the Andalusian, his dreamy eye wandering over the marble tracery on the wall above.
The emir broke forth hotly:—
"Wallah, you Spaniard, what mean then your pretty songs, your chatter of praise and compliment, if they are words, words, and nothing more? In the East, whence I come, we thrill, we feel, we make no shame to flame with a mighty passion. Aye, and make our deeds match our fine words."
Musa laid down the lute, and stared at the emir unconcernedly.
"My good lord," answered he, "do you not know that when I sing love, I sing not the love of any one lady? And think not I despise our princess—she is peerless among women. Rather I praise that divine essence which reveals itself in every bright eye and velvet cheek from east to west,—this pure beauty sent down from Paradise by the favor of Allah, I adore; and whenever I behold it, its praise I must sing."
"You are trained in the heathen philosophy of your schools of Cordova," retorted the emir; "I cannot follow your thought. To me it is better to have the taste of one cup of wine than be told of the sweetness of ten thousand. Enough; the Count requires me." And he arose to bow himself out.
Musa had arisen also, and courteously thrust his right hand in his breast, where he murmured the farewell, "Peace be on you."
Iftikhar's answer hung for a moment on his lips, then he gave the customary reply among Moslem friends, "And on you be peace, and the mercy of Allah and His blessings!"
Mary sighed when the emir was gone.
"You are not gay, dear lady," said the Spaniard; "if I can do aught to aid, command me."
Half petulantly the princess caught a sugared cake from the tray by the divan and threw it into the fountain, where the greedy fish in the basin waited.
"I should be very happy, should I not?" exclaimed she, with a laugh not very merry. "See, since I have come to Palermo, here are Richard Longsword and De Valmont with blades drawn on my account; the emir sighs like the west wind, and is all gloom and restlessness; and you, Sir Musa," she went on boldly, "were you to speak out your own heart, are wishing them all three dead, that you might have no rival. Holy Mother," added she, with half a sob, half a laugh, "I am too much loved! What am I, silly girl, that so many brave cavaliers should pawn their souls for my poor sake!"
"Sweet mistress," replied the Spaniard, very slowly, flinging a second cake into the fountain, "you are wrong. Your friend, your admirer, I will ever be. Were we both Christian or Moslem, had I no memories of moon-lit nights and sun-lit orchards in Spain—but enough of that! Know that I am the sworn brother of Richard Longsword; that he loves you purely and honorably; that after the manner of his people he will become a great man, whom any lady, be she however high, might love to call her lord. And that you may smile on him, is my first and only prayer."
Mary's whole face crimsoned at this, for Musa was not now playing the poet. There was a ring of command in her voice when she made answer:—
"Sir Musa, I cannot have another say for them what Richard and Louis de Valmont may not say to my face. Let us await the tourney. Who knows lest your friend will woo no more after that day? I hear—God spare them both—that Louis is a terrible knight; he will ride against Longsword as though all the fiends were in him."
"They are in the hands of the Most High," said the Andalusian, still very gently; "yet, believe me, the Provençal may have ridden down many stout knights, and yet not the peer of Longsword. But—" and he in turn salaamed, "I have also to hasten. And perhaps even my presence is burdensome."
"No," cried the Greek, extending her hands, "come, come often; I have too many lovers, too few friends. My father sinks day by day; Christ pity me! I am alone in a strange land; I have borne myself foolishly. The beauty you sing of is half a curse. If truly you would be my friend, and nothing more, do not desert me. I am very wretched."
There were tears in her eyes; her voice choked a little, but she stood proud and steady, the great princess still.
Very low was the reverence paid by the Spaniard. He kissed the bright rug at her feet; then rising, answered:—
"Star of the Greeks, not you, but Allah who has put enchantment in your eyes, has bred this trouble, if trouble it be. But as for me, I swear it, by Allah the Great, you shall never call on me in vain!"
"You are a noble cavalier, Sir Musa," said the lady, now all dignity; "I thank you."
So the days went by, and it was the evening before the tourney. All around Palermo spread the tents, bright pavilions of silk with broad pennons above, whipping the slow south wind. The gardens of the Golden Shell buzzed with the clatter and hum of a thousand busy squires. In the city, every house—Christian, Moslem, or Jewish—was thrown open to guests. There were flags at every door and window; and within pealed the laughter of feasters, the note of viol and psaltery and tabor at the dance. All the house walls without and within were decked in tapestries, cloth of gold, and pricelesspaileandcendalsilk, some from the looms of Thebes or Corinth, some from the farthest Ind. Mixed with these Orient stuffs, the storied Poitou tapestry shook to the breeze in long folds, displaying kings and emperors and the legion of the saints. Much wagering there was with knight and villain on the issues of the day. Many cavaliers of the baser sort had entered, merely in hopes to fill their purses by the ransom of defeated combatants; most of all, men chaffered over the coming duel between Richard and Louis. "Longsword would never stand one round," ran the vulgar tongue; "De Valmont had no peer unless it were Iftikhar. The saints have mercy on the younger knight in Purgatory!"
As for Mary, she had spent the afternoon in no common vexation. Her father was worse, and could not go to the tourney. Countess Adelaide had bidden the princess sit with her, but Mary had little joy in the prospect.
That evening as she sat with a taper at her reading-desk, the purple vellum leaves of George of Pisidia's learned epic brought little forgetfulness. While she was staring at the words, Bardas, the serving-man, startled her: "The emir Iftikhar to see the gracious princess." And without awaiting permission the Egyptian entered. He was in his splendid panoply,—gold on the rings of his cuirass, two broad eagle wings on his helmet, between them burned a great ruby. Under the mail-shirt hung the green silk trousers with their pearl embroidery, gems again on the buckles of the high shoes, more gems on the gilded sword hilt.
"You are come in state, my lord," said the Greek, while he made profound obeisance. "What may I do for you?"
"O lady of excellent beauty," he began abruptly, "will you indeed give your hand to him who conquers to-morrow?"
The wandering eye, the flushed cheek, the mad fire of his words—all these were a warning. Mary drew herself up.
"You ask what you have no right, my lord," answered she; "I am in no way pledged."
Unlucky admission: in a twinkling the emir had moved a step toward her and stretched out his arms.
"Oh, happy mortal that I am! O lady with the wisdom of Sukman, nephew of Job, the beauty of Jacob, the sweet voice of David, the purity of Mary the Virgin! Listen! Favor me!"
"Sir!" cried the Greek, recoiling as he advanced, "what is this speech? No more of it. I am Christian, you a Moslem. Friends we have been, perhaps to our cost. More than that, never; we part, if you think to make otherwise!"
Iftikhar fell on his knees. All the flame of a terrible passion was kindling his eyes. Even as she trembled, Mary could admire his Oriental splendor. But she did not forget herself.
"I must bid you leave me!" with a commanding gesture. "If our friendship leads to this—it is well to make an end!"
"Not so," burst from the Egyptian, still supplicating; "none worship you as do I! To me you are fair as the moon in its fourteenth night, when the clouds withdraw. For your sake I will turn Christian. To win you—" But Mary was in no gracious mood that night.
"Madman," she tossed back, all her anger rising at his importunity, "do you think you will buy me with such a bribe? Forswear Mohammed for your soul's sake, not for mine! I do not love you. Were I to look on any Moslem, why not Musa? he is a noble cavalier."
Iftikhar was not kneeling now. His eyes still flashed. His voice was husky; but he mastered it.
"Lady," he said a little thickly, "think well before you say me nay. Listen—I am a man of great power among both Franks and Moslem. Were I to go to Syria, even higher things await me,—commands, cities, principalities," his voice rose higher, "kingdoms even; for you should know that I am a chieftain of the Ismaelians, one of the highestdaisof that dread brotherhood, whose daggers strike down the mightiest, and at whose warning kalifs tremble—"
Mary cut him short; her poise grew more haughty. "I do not love you. Were you kalif or emperor, I would not favor you. Depart."
"Hearken!" cried the Egyptian, with a last effort; "my breast bursts for the love of you; the light of your eyes is my sun; a kiss from you—my arms about you—"
But here the Greek, whose face had crimsoned, snatched a tiny baton beside a bronze gong.
"Away from me!" she commanded fiercely, as he took an uneasy step toward her. "Away! or I sound the gong and call the grooms."
"Woman!" came from his lips hotly, "what is such a threat to me? I would have you with your love if I might. But, by the Glory of Allah, you I will have, though your every breath were a curse. Your grooms!" with a proud toss of his splendid head; "were they ten, what have I to fear? I, the best sword in all Sicily, in all Syria, Egypt, and Iran, perchance." And he came a step still nearer; and now at last Mary began to dread, but still she did not quail.
"I doubt not your valor, my lord," she said very coldly. "But my heart and hand are not to be won with a cimeter, as was won that castle breach which Musa and Richard Longsword, not you, entered first."
Scarce were the words out of her mouth before terror seized her. For in a twinkling Iftikhar had snatched the gong from her reach, and caught her wrist in a grasp of iron. She could feel the hot breath from his nostrils in her face, see the mad blood swelling the veins of his forehead. In her panic she screamed once, and instantly Iftikhar was pressing her very throat. In his mighty hands she was dumb and helpless as a child.
"Hear me," came from his lips in a hoarse whisper. "I have not come hither alone. I had come to bear away the pledge of your love. You spurn me. All is provided. My slave Zeyneb is without, and with him fifteen men, all armed, hidden in the gardens. What resistance could your servants make, were you to cry ever so loudly? My men are devotees of our order—would kill themselves at my bidding. A ship lies in the harbor at my command. It is night. You are helpless. I will carry you aboard. Before morning we are beyond sight of Sicily, beyond pursuit. And you are mine, be it in love or hate, forever—forever!"
Iftikhar pressed his face nearer. Mary thrilled with horror beyond words. She had one thought,—her father, her father.
"To Egypt," Iftikhar was repeating, "to Syria. There is a palace of mine at Aleppo, beside which this is a cottage. And it shall be yours and you mine.Allah akhbah!How beautiful you are; your lips, a kiss—"
But even as Mary's senses reeled, she heard a step, a familiar step, and Iftikhar had let her drop from his hands as though her form were flame. She caught at a column, steadied herself, and looked upon the face of Musa.
The Spaniard was standing in the dim light of the hall, dressed in sombre black armor; but the red plumes danced on his helmet. His shield was on his arm, naked cimeter outstretched.
"The peace of Allah be with you, fair lady, and noble lord," said Musa, bowing in most stately fashion, first to the shivering Greek, then to Iftikhar. The Egyptian already had his weapon drawn, but the Andalusian did not fall on guard.
"Most excellent emir," continued he, very gently, "Count Roger bids me say, if you will go at once to the castle, it will please him well. And your men in the gardens shall be no care to you. I have ridden from Palermo with forty lancers, who will give them all good company on return."
Night was never blacker than the frown of the Egyptian, when he replied huskily: "And, Sir Spaniard, why does Count Roger favoryouwith bearing me his orders? And why come you here unbidden, with cimeter and target?"
"Because," answered Musa, his brow too darkening, "I know too well why the Commander of the Guard is here." Then, more sternly, "And that I have come barely in time—praise be to Allah—to save him from a deed at which the very jinns of hell would cry out!"
He took a step closer to Iftikhar, and the two blades went up together. But Mary sprang forward, with the cry:—
"Not as you live! You shall not. Would you kill my father by fighting here, and for me?"
Musa let his point fall, and bowed with courtly ease.
"You say well, Star of the Greeks. The emir will speak with me elsewhere."
Iftikhar made no attempt to conceal his rage.
"Cursed be you and all your race! What enchanter has told you this—has humiliated me thus?"
"You ask what I may not tell," and Musa smiled in his gentle way. "Enough, I was told all that was in your heart, about an hour since,—the ship, the men, the design. Count Roger also knows; and, my lord, he has been none too well pleased with your faithfulness of late. I have come with forty given me by the Count. They do not know their errand; they are to move at my nod. Ride back with me to Palermo, my lord, and pledge me your word, by Allah the Great, said thrice, that you will not molest Mary Kurkuas so long as you remain in Sicily, or—"
"And if I will not—" broke from the raging emir.
"Then, my lord, I shall carry you to the castle in fetters. My men are also without—" Iftikhar had half started upon the Spaniard, swinging his cimeter. "Never!" came between his teeth. Musa beckoned away Mary with his own weapon. "To your father!" he commanded. But the Egyptian let his point sink. "Allah make you feel the fire of Gehennah!" was his curse. "I am trapped, I will swear."
"Then, my lord, saving Count Roger, and the lady, and myself, none shall ever know of this," said Musa softly, and he pointed with his cimeter to the doorway. Iftikhar repeated the great oath—the most terrible among Moslems—thrice; bowed to the Spaniard; made a profound salaam to Mary; the samite curtains in the passage closed behind him; his footfalls died away; he was gone. Musa bowed in turn:—
"Allah is merciful, dear lady. Do I prove a faithful cavalier?"
"Ah, Sir Musa!" cried Mary, still faint and weak, "God requite you. I offer you all I have, except love—and could I give that, it were mean repayment."
Musa's plumes almost brushed the pavement as he again saluted.
"I may not tell how I learned of this plot. I was warned secretly by a strange Arabian woman, who required of me solemn oath not to reveal her. To her, owe the thanks! But my mistress's words are more precious than as if each syllable were treasures of gold; the praise, flashed from her eyes, beyond gems; her voice sweeter than all the nightingales of Khorassan. I am well repaid."
He, too, departed. Mary stood long clinging to the pillar, now shivering, now laughing. What had she not escaped? When might she forget the unholy desire on the emir's face when he departed? Had he indeed forsaken his passion for her forever?
"St. Theodore," she cried with a sad, wild laugh, "I am cursed with too much love!"
Then she went to her father.
November sixth; feast of St. Leonard, the warrior hermit; third hour of the morning. In the monastery church the monks were chanting "terce" to an empty nave. When the muezzins climbed their minarets to bid all Moslems "come to prayer," few heard. Mary Kurkuas sat in the pavilion of Countess Adelaide, viewing the lists and wondering if even the vision of the Golden Horn and Constantinople might be more fair. The lists were set in the broad plain betwixt the city and Monte Pellegrino, the loftier western height of Castellaccio and Monte Cuccio. All about lay the matchless country—Palermo, its masses of white buildings crowned with gilded minarets; the blooming "Golden Shell" a sea of olive trees, palm, fig, orange, running down to that other sea of emerald; and in the background rocks of saffron topped by the broken peaks beyond.
Against the stout wooden barriers with pointed palings, pressed and jostled a vast swarm of city folk,—Greek, Frank, Arab, Jew,—their busy tongues making babel. Within the barriers, but behind the low inner fence, loitered the impatient squires, splendid in bright mantles and silvered casques, ready, the instant conflict joined, to rush to themêlée, and drag dismounted combatants from under the horses. But for the ladies—"the stars of the tourney"—were set shady pavilions,—wooden lodges, brightly painted, flag-covered. Now their rising tiers of seats were filled by a buzzing throng, rustling their silken mantles and satin bleaunts. And the sun was glancing on many a gemmed fillet and many a ribbon-decked, blond tress that fell nigh to its proud owner's knees. These on the western side. On the eastern fluttered gauzy veils, feathery fans, blazing brocade of Mosul, and kerchiefs of Kufa. Dark eyes flashed from beneath the veiling. But Moslem watched Christian in peace. A clang of trumpets was drifting down the wind—the tourneyers were coming from Palermo.
Fifty viols braying in the hands of marching Frankishjongleurs; fifty Egyptian timbrels clattering; kettledrums, northern horns; heralds in blue mantles, Christian and Moslem side by side—the combatants two abreast—Norman, Provençal, Sicilian, Arab, Egyptians of the embassy,—a goodly company; gold on every Toledo hauberk, silver on each bit and bridle; a trailing pennon on every lance, save when a prouder banner streamed—the silken stocking of some fair dame, gift of love to her chosen cavalier. So the procession entered. Behind them trailed a new horde of common folk who had come from watching two blindfolded varlets chase a pig in a ring; these, too, now pressed against the palings, peering and edging for a glimpse within. Then, while the actual combatants rode to the tents at either end of the lists, two cavaliers—Count Roger de Hauteville and Prince Tancred, his nephew—came to take seats in the Countess's lodge; for they were judges of the games.
A lordly cavalier was the Sicilian count despite threescore years and more; fire still in his blue eyes, command and power in his voice; worthy suzerain of so fair an isle. At his side stood his nephew,—stranger as yet to Mary Kurkuas; but at once she noted his flaxen hair and crafty "sea-green" eye, and stature above that of common men. She was told he had fame as the most headlong cavalier in all south Italy; but she little dreamed what deeds God destined him to dare. Very ceremonious was the Prince, when he saluted the Greek lady. He spoke her own tongue fluently, and never in Constantinople had she met a gentleman more at his ease in courtly company. Their talk ran soon to the tourney and the combatants.
"I wish you joy, fair princess," protested Tancred; "not often may any lady see two stouter champions ride with her name on the lips of both!"
Mary shook her head.
"Would God they might do anything else! They tell me Sir Louis has sworn to have Sir Richard's life; and the Auvergner is a terrible cavalier."
Tancred shot a glance keen as an arrow. Did he know that Mary's heart would ride with one of the train and not with the other?
"Spare him your tears," was the answer. "Louis de Valmont is a famous knight; but I do not think he will down Richard Longsword in one joust,—or in seven."
"St. Basil spare both—and forgive both!" was the unuttered reply. But she asked, "Yet I saw neither among the combatants?"
"True; both protested they could not meet in the regular tourney and take the required oath to fight solely to gain skill. Fight on the same side they will not; therefore they will come forward when the general games end." Tancred was cut short by a word from the Count.
"See, my princess—a cavalier asks your favor."
None other than Musa had reined before the pavilion on a prancing white Berber. His plain black mail fitted his fine form like a doublet. His mettled horse caracoled under his touch with a grace that made a long "Ah!" come from betwixt more than one pair of red lips. His glance sought the Greek.
Mary rose deliberately; long since had she learned not to dread the public eye.
"See, Sir Musa," cried she, loosing the red ribbon from her neck. "Wear this in the games and do me honor!" More than two heads had come together.
"Has De Valmont a new rival?" ran the whisper. But Mary knew her ground.
"Your reward for service untold," she tossed forth; and only the Count and two more knew what her words implied. Musa caught the ribbon with a flourish of his lance; pressed it to his lips, then wound it deftly around the green, peaked cap which he wore Andalusian fashion in lieu of turban.
"You honor a gallant cavalier," said the Count, applauding. "I offered him much to join my service; but he listens to the proffers of the Egyptian envoys."
"Look!" came Tancred's voice; and Mary saw Iftikhar Eddauleh, on a dappled Arabian and in his panoply of the night before, come plunging down the lists. Abreast of Musa he drew rein in a twinkling, and the two riders came together so close that no other might hear the words which flew between them. But ten thousand saw Musa's hand clap to hilt, and Iftikhar's lance half fall to rest.
"Holy Mother—keep them asunder!" was Mary's whispered prayer.
Count Roger had risen.
"Sirs—what is this? Brew quarrels under your lady's very eyes? Go apart, or I forbid you to ride in the games." Iftikhar bowed his head,—in no very good grace, it seemed,—and cantered sulkily to the upper end of the lists.
"I fear Iftikhar Eddauleh and I must soon seek other masters," remarked the Count to Tancred, in Mary's hearing. "Rumor has it, he has dealings with the Ismaelians. He grows haughty and insubordinate. A good captain and a matchless cavalier; yet I shall not grieve to see him return to the East."
But now the Christian heralds were calling on the Normans and Provençals to range themselves in two companies and do battle, after the rule of that knightly paragon, Geoffrey de Preully,—"for the love of Christ, St. George, and all fair ladies." Of the passage at arms that followed, needless here to tell. Many a stout blow was struck despite blunted weapons; ten good knights fell senseless from their horses; the squires took up two dead; sent for a priest to anoint a third. Before the fray ended, little Countess Blanche and her ladies had fluttered and shrieked till wild and hoarse. They had torn off ribbons, necklaces, lockets, bracelets, and tossed forth madly "gauntlets of love" to favorite cavaliers, until they sat—or stood rather—dressed only in their robes and their long, bright hair.
Then came respite, while the lists were cleared for the Saracens' games,—for the wise Count suffered no ill-blood to breed by letting Christian ride against Moslem. The Egyptian cavaliers took part—stately men, in red, silver-embroidered tunics, with blue, gem-set aigrettes flashing in their turbans. No less gallant were the Sicilian Saracens, and Iftikhar most brilliant of them all. A small palm tree was set in the midst of the arena,—the trunk bronze, the leaves one sheen of gold-foil. A silver dove dangled from a bough, in the bill a golden ring. Then the Arab heralds proclaimed that each horseman should ride in turn, catching the ring upon his lance; and he who once failed should not try again.
So they rode, twenty or more. The first round none missed; three in the second; and so till the ninth, when there were but two,—and these Iftikhar and Musa the Andalusian.
"Beard of the Prophet!" cried Hasham, the Egyptian envoy, who sat at the Count's side, "the two are as enchanted. Not in all Egypt—in all Syria and Khorassan,—such horsemen!"
"And the All-wise alone knows," responded the Count, "which of the two be the better! Yet I wish any save these two were contending. See! Again!"
And the twain rode many times; till Mary, whose cheeks were very hot and eyes very bright, forgot to count the rounds. At last a shout:—
"Iftikhar fails!" The ring was still in the dove's mouth. Musa swung lightly his horse; dropped lance-point, dashed at the tree at a gallop, fleet as the north wind, amid a cloud of dust; but as he flew down the lists a mightier shout was rising. The ring glittered on his spear. The Count placed the prize in Mary's hand, when the heralds led the victor to the judges' lodge.
"Sir Musa," said she clearly, while he knelt and she fixed the diamond-studded aigrette upon his cap, "you have so ridden that all your friends grow proud. May it be ever thus!"