RUSTED HEAD OF A LANCE"AND IN HIS HAND THE RUSTED HEAD OF A LANCE"
"No, sweet friends," said the Norman to those who could hear. "We are all saved by the favor of God. I am only like you, a very sinful man." And he bowed his head, remembering his misdeeds, and wondering why he was chosen to have part in so great a mercy. But the people would not listen to him or his fellows. They carried the twelve, and Peter Barthelmy at their head, borne on high to the palace of the Patriarch; and there the dear Bishop Adhemar was roused from his sickness, and cured in a twinkling by the cry that shot on ahead of the company, "Gloria! Gloria!The lance! The lance! Let us fall upon Kerbogha!"
The cry came to the men on the walls, and to Duke Godfrey, who crossed himself and swore seven candlesticks of gold to our Lady of Antwerp. The Moslems heard it, and those who were wise said, "Let us pray Allah to shield against the Frankish valor, if once it be kindled."
Only one shout now throughout the city. From the weakest and hungriest, "Battle!" But Godfrey restrained those who wished to fight that very night. "Nothing rash," he urged; and it was determined to send an embassy to bid Kerbogha raise the siege or offer fair combat. They sent as envoys Peter the Hermit, and one Herluin who knew the infidels' speech; also Richard Longsword, because he likewise spoke Arabic, and could cast a soldier's eye on the emir's camp. The parley sounded, and a gorgeously dressedatabegmet the envoys at the Bridge Gate to lead them to Kerbogha. The Moslem made large eyes at the little monk with his rope girdle and tattered cassock, the humble interpreter, and the ponderous Frankish baron, in threadbare bleaunt and clattering a sword no arm from Tunis to Bokhara could wield.
"And is this embassy clothed with power to deal with our commander?" demanded the wonderingatabeg. "The passions of the Lord Kerbogha are swift. Do not play with him."
"Friend," said Richard, soberly, "you shall find that we lack not authority."
Therefore the three were led into the paynim camp, of which the chief part lay north of the river. Here they saw that the might of the East had indeed gathered about Kerbogha: wiry Seljouks of Kilidge Arslan, brown Arabs from the Southern deserts, graceful Persians, dark-eyed Syrians in the white dress of the Ismaelians, gaudily clad Turkoman cavaliers from Khorassan and Kerman, Tartar hordesmen from the steppes of the far East; all stood about, pointing, whispering, jeering at the three Franks. "Were these the terrible men who had won Nicæa and Dorylæum, and taken Antioch?" ran the titter. But no one molested them, as theatabegescorted through the avenues of black camel's-hair tents, interspersed with the gayer silken pavilions of the emirs. Then at last they found themselves before the palace tent of Kerbogha. Here they were led at once before the Moslem chief himself, who was clothed in gold, silk, and jewels, worth ten baronies in France. He was surrounded by the emirs and petty sultans, standing close about his throne; on his left hand was Kilidge Arslan the Seljouk, and Dekak lord of Damascus; on his right a figure Richard knew full well, clothed though he was in gilded, jewel-set armor from head to heel, Iftikhar Eddauleh! All around the tent were ranged Kerbogha's bodyguard, three thousand picked Turkish horsemen, panoplied in flashing steel; while the three envoys were led up a lane of giant negro mace-bearers, whose eyes followed the least beck of their lord, whose golden girdles and red loin-cloths shone doubly bright against their ebony skins. Richard, as he came, saw the stores of food and wine laid out for the pleasure of the infidels, while good Christians were starving. He saw the camels of the hospital corps of Kerbogha, and the host of physicians waiting here with their medicine chests, while in Antioch thousands had died of pestilence. Then his heart grew hard, and he held his head very high, as he and his companions walked down the file of negroes and stood before Kerbogha.
Now the chamberlains who were at the foot of the throne had motioned to the Franks to bow down, and kiss the carpet before Kerbogha; but the three stood like statues. When the silence was long, Kerbogha spoke forth, not veiling impatience.
"Fools, how long will you carry yourselves so arrogantly? It is yours to humble yourselves, not play the part of lords. A strange embassy this—who are you? What do you seek?"
And Harluin respectfully, but firmly, answered:—
"Lord, we are the envoys of the princes in Antioch; and this venerable hermit named Peter will speak for us."
A thousand eyes were on the little monk when he stepped forward. There was no sign of fear, his own eyes were very bright; he returned the haughty gaze of Kerbogha as if he were himself arbiter of life or death. Harluin strove to interpret for him; but Peter had recalled his Syriac learned on the pilgrimage, and some angel gave him the gift of tongues. Then right in the teeth of Kerbogha and the emirs the tattered monk flung his challenge:—
"Your Highness, the assembly of the chiefs shut up in Antioch have sent me to you to bid you cease from this siege of the city which the mercy of God has restored to us. The blessed Peter, prince of the Apostles, has by virtue of the will of God plucked it from you, never to return. Now, therefore, take choice: raise the siege of this city without delay, or prepare for instant battle. If you will, send any number of champions into the lists, and let them meet an equal number of our own; but if you will not—know that God is preparing to cut your host short in its sins! Nevertheless, our word is still—peace. Return to your own country, the Christians will not molest you. We will even put up prayers that your hearts may be touched with the Gospel and your souls delivered from perdition. Sweet indeed to call you brethren, to conclude betwixt Frank and Turk abiding peace! Otherwise, let there be war; and let the just God of battles judge between us! Surprise us, you cannot; neither will we steal victory. But in fair field, man to man, will we meet you,—with few or with many,—and teach your haughty mouths the taste of Christian valor!"
When the monk had finished, there ran a low growl and bitter laugh amongst the emirs and guardsmen, while Iftikhar laughed loudest of them all.
"Ha! noble monk!" he cried in French, "and you, my Lord de St. Julien, one would never think such bold words could flow out of such empty bellies!"
Richard made him no answer. He saw Kerbogha's right hand twitch, as if to sweep it from left to right, the sign for instant decapitation of the envoys,—an order that fifty eager negroes would have fulfilled. But the general frowned on his guards who started forward, and reined in his fury.
"Peter, take back to Antioch the only resolution left to you and your starving host, whose feasts are on grass and vermin. Let the beardless youth deliver themselves up to me, and I will let them live as my slaves, and of my friends and vassals. Let the young girls come out,—they shall be kept safe in our harems; they say the Frankish maids are fair. As for all those with beards or white hair, it shall rest with me to put them all to the edge of the sword, or slay some, and load the rest with chains;" and as he spoke he pointed to the leg irons and manacles which lay in great heaps all about the pavilion, ready for the Christian captives. "Yield now, and tosomeI may show mercy. Let not your babbling priests deceive you. Allah has turned against you. Where are your crucified Messiah and your false apostles, that they let you perish like gnats? Yield now; the axe is kinder than death by starving. To such as become Moslem, Al Koran commands to show compassion; for the rest, they must yield themselves into my hands, and take what I will. Do not wait until to-morrow; if you are takenthen, cry on your God, who could not save even himself from the cross, to save you from my fury!"
When Kerbogha was finished, a great shout went up from the Moslems. "Allah akhbar!Away with the infidels!" and there was a rush, as if to hew the three in pieces then and there. But the general motioned them to keep peace, and Peter, whose daring passed a lion's, flashed back his reply:—
"To-morrow, lord of Mosul, you shall judge whether Mohammed, the false prophet, can prevail against the crucified Christ."
"Away! They rush on ruin!" shouted Kerbogha. "Back to the city with them!"
The little monk cast one last glance of defiance at the figure on the throne, and with a slow and steady step the three Christians turned their backs on the gorgeous company, unheeding a thousand threats that buzzed around their ears. Last of all went Richard, and, as he went, a voice called after him in French:—
"Ho! Richard Longsword, stay!"
The Norman halted; he was face to face with Iftikhar Eddauleh. The Ismaelian had thrown back his helmet, so that the gilded plates no longer concealed his face, which wore a very ugly smile. His teeth shone white and sharp as a tiger's, but his poise was lordly as ever.
"I am at your service, my lord!" said the Christian.
Iftikhar dropped his voice to a whisper:—
"You are well fed in Antioch! Your cheeks are thinner than on the day you held the lists at Palermo!"
"And I have done many things since then, my lord, as have you," came the answer. Iftikhar's eyes seemed hot irons to pierce through his enemy, when he replied:—
"Between us two lies so great a hate, that if we were both in Gehenna, I think we would forget our pains in joy of seeing the other scorching."
"That is well said, my lord. But why detain me? I know all this."
Iftikhar's voice sank yet lower, that none of the great company might hear. "You had your day at Aleppo, but to-day is mine. Kerbogha holds your host in the hollow of his hand, yet at my word he will let you march unhindered to Jerusalem."
"I do not follow you, Cid Iftikhar."
The voice became a mere whisper, but how hoarse! "Deliver up to me Mary Kurkuas safely, and I will swear by Allah the Great, that Kerbogha raises the siege!"
Richard laughed in his turn now, for it was joy to see his enemy's pain. "My lord, you cannot tempt me! Praise God Mary Kurkuas is anywhere but in Antioch among our starving host!" But even the Norman almost trembled when he saw the storm of blind fury on the Ismaelian's face.
"Where, as Allah lives,—where is the Star of the Greeks?" raged Iftikhar, his voice unconsciously rising.
"Not all your deaths and torments in the dungeons of El Halebah will wring that from me."
"Then by the Apostle of Allah!" foamed Iftikhar; and he clutched at the Norman's arm, while seeking his own hilt. Kerbogha cut him short:—
"Cid Iftikhar, the Christians are madmen; yet respect the embassy. Let this fellow go!"
Iftikhar flung the arm from him.
"Go then, go," rang his threat in Arabic, which a hundred heard. "To-morrow we will clear the reckoning. It grows ever longer. Do you know," and he showed his white teeth, "I have killed your sister Eleanor with my own hand?"
Richard bowed in his stateliest fashion.
"My lord," said he, "my sister was long since worse than dead; I did not know she was in El Halebah when I came to Aleppo, or I might have rescued. Our Lady is merciful; she has peace. And as for me—ask your own heart if I am a harmless foe; remember you fell at Aleppo twice, thrice, and by my strength! So let God judge us, and give fair battle!"
"Let Him judge!" retorted Iftikhar, turning, and Kerbogha shook out his handkerchief, the signal for the breaking up of the assembly.
So the three Christians were led away, and they did not quail when wild desert dervishes flourished bare cimeters over their heads, and chanted from Al Koran:—
"Strike off their heads and strike off their fingers!
"They shall suffer because they resisted Allah and his apostle!
"Yea, the infidels shall suffer the torment of hell fire!"
While Richard heard Peter muttering softly to himself:—
"Happy shall he be who rewardeth thee, as thou hast served us!
"Happy shall he be that taketh and dasheth thy little ones against the stones!"
At last, despite the curses, the three were again safe and sound before the Bridge Gate. They entered, and were surrounded by a vast crowd demanding the result of the embassy. When Peter wished to tell the people of the threats and ragings of Kerbogha, Duke Godfrey, who had been the first to hear, feared lest any should be discouraged. So Peter merely declared that Kerbogha wished instant battle, and was taken before the chiefs. There he and Longsword told of the might and splendor and insolence of the Moslems, how Kerbogha had blasphemed the name of Christ and breathed forth cruelty against the besieged. Then even among the chieftains, despite the miracle of the lance, a few faint hearts trembled. But Bishop Adhemar, standing up, lifted his eyes to heaven and recited solemnly:—
"This is the word of the Lord concerning Kerbogha, as once against Sennacherib, king of Assyria:—
"'Whom hast thou reproached and blasphemed? and against whom hast thou exalted thy voice, and lifted up thine eyes on high? even against the Holy One of Israel.
"'But I know thy abode, and thy rage against me.
"'Because thy rage against me and thy tumult is come up into mine ears, therefore will I put my hook in thy nose, and my bridle in thy lips, and I will turn thee back by the way thou camest.
"'For I will defend this city, to save it, for mine own sake and for my servant David's sake!'"
When Adhemar had spoken, there was only one thought at the council,—battle on the morrow! and the heralds-at-arms went through the city, bidding every man prepare to march with the dawn. It was very late, but no man sought his bed. Richard was long with Bohemond, Tancred, Duke Robert, and Godfrey, telling all that he had seen in the Moslem camp: how that despite the numbers and the splendor, discipline seemed lax, and the divisions very ill placed.
Even while the chiefs were in council, all Antioch was rejoicing over a great boon—another favor of Heaven. A secret magazine of corn had been discovered; and a meal of good food was set before every man that night, something that was priceless gain to those who were to struggle for their lives at cockcrow.
There was no despairing now; no helpless lethargy, no longing for "gentle France." One had thought the victory already gained, to go among the host and hear everywhere theTe Deumsin honor of the Holy Lance and the battle-cry,—so cheerful now,—"God wills it! To Jerusalem!"
The whole host made ready for battle that night with prayer and sacrament. The priests went their rounds through the army, confessing each man; and many a hardened sinner, who had taken even the cross lightly, had his heart melted when his comrades were exchanging the kiss of love, and saying, "God keep us all, dear brothers; who knows but that to-morrow night we shall be sitting with the angels!"
It was almost the gray of dawn when Richard went among his men. He found them cheerful, arms ready, anxiously awaiting the signal for battle.
"My good vassals," said the Norman, "we all stand in the presence of God, seigneur and peasant. You have been faithful vassals to me, and I have tried to be a kindly and just lord to you. Yet if any man have a grievance against me—say on! Let all hear him."
But many voices answered, "You have been a father and elder brother to us, lord; may we all die for you if need be!"
"And I for you!" replied the Baron, deeply touched. Then, after a pause, "Now, my men, are we prepared—body and soul—for victory on earth, or the sight of God the Father?"
"Ready," gruffly replied Herbert; "Sebastian has made us all spotless as young lambs."
"You have many sins to confess, brother," slyly hinted Theroulde. "Sad if you have forgotten some odd killing, that will rise up for judgment!"
"Think of your own lies and cheating," snapped the man-at-arms.
But Sebastian only cried, "Peace! peace!" and told how the meanest villain who died fighting on the morrow was sure of a heavenly throne and a kingdom greater than that of Philip of France. If their past had been wicked, here was an easy penance—given by Bishop Turpin at Roncesvalles, "to smite their best against the infidels"; and always let them remember that all the angels clapped their hands when an unbeliever fell under the sword, and there was joy unspeakable in the heart of God.
With a vast company the St. Julieners marched through the Bridge Gate at red dawn. "God wills it!" arose the shout from thousands on thousands, while the monks and priests upon the walls began to thunder forth the great psalm:—
"Let God arise: let His enemies be scattered!"
There was a terrible gladness in all hearts—they must fight paynims unnumbered; defeat was death. But death meant welcome to Christ's right hand; victory, the spoiling of Kerbogha.
Now the full story of the battle of Antioch can be told only by that strong angel in whose book are treasured the records of the brave deeds done in faith. When that awful book is unsealed, it will be known why the spirits of evil beguiled Kerbogha into sitting idly in his tent at chess, while the Christian host was issuing from Antioch; why the two thousand Turks who held the head of the Iron Bridge scattered like smoke at the Crusaders' first bolts, to let the starving Franks lead their twelve "battles" across the river, and put them in close array confronting the Moslem line. Long, however, before the grapple came, Kerbogha and hisatabegshad taken the saddle, and the Christians saw arrayed against them horse and foot innumerable; a wide sea of flashing steel, of bright turbans and surcoats, tossing pennons and lances on plunging desert steeds. From the extreme left wing with the Holy Lance as special talisman borne by Raymond of Agiles where Bishop Adhemar commanded, to the right of the long line where Hugh of Vermandois led, there ran a thrill, and each man whispered to his neighbor "Now!" and steeled his muscles for the shock. No jests and laughter as often before a battle; not a soul now had heart for that. But every eye was bright, every lip firm, and the breath came quick and deep. There was dead hush when Adhemar in mitre and stole went down the line followed by a great company of priests bearing smoking censers, and in their midst a high crucifix. And when he spoke each casqued head bowed, each knee was bent. At the sight even the Moslems seemed to keep silence.
"The peace of God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost be in your hearts and keep you. And in the name of the Holy Trinity do battle. Amen!"
So sounded the great benediction. When all rose to their feet, and were locking close the spear hedge, Richard Longsword, one of the few mounted knights who rode as guard around the Holy Lance, heard as it were the roaring of a tempest coming down the wind from the host of Kerbogha, a wild clangor ofatabalsand kettledrums, and the clash of myriad cymbals, and higher and shriller than all, the yell from the mad devotees of Arabia and Khorassan:—
"La ilaha ill' Allah! La ilaha ill' Allah!"
The cry pealed from a hundred thousand throats; and the stoutest soldier of the Cross felt a shiver and a tingling, though he were veteran from many a well-fought field. Now, at last, was the issue left to their good swords and God!
But while the Moslem war-shout rent the cloudless dome of morning, an answering echo rolled onward from the Christians, and as if the very shout were the signal, the long line rushed forward, the thousands moving as one.
"God wills it! Death to the unbelievers!"
The lines sprang toward each other like lions of the waste; the broad plain country that stretched northward from the river grew narrow under their swift feet. Then avalanche smote avalanche, light wrestled with darkness!
No horseman's and archer's battle as at Dorylæum; no passage at arms between chieftains while the hosts stood by! But man to man they fought; the starving Franks looking into swarthy faces, where black eyes glanced fire and white teeth flashed hate. So for a moment the Turkoman cavalry strove to break through the Christian spear hedge,—for few French fought mounted that day. But the blooded chargers recoiled from the dense line of lances, and swinging swords, and battle-axes, as from a barrier of live fire, and reeled back to leave the plain red with dying steeds and stricken riders.
The first blood only. For when Kerbogha saw that his horsemen could not ride down the defiant foe at will, he flung forward his archers and javelin-men, until the air grew dark with flying death that searched out the stoutest armor. Then while the arrows yet screeched, and men were falling fast, the Arabians and Turks charged home. Charged—but though the spear wall wavered, it was not broken—while above the shouts and howls of the infidels beseeching Allah, sounded the chanting of the psalm from the priests who stood behind the men-at-arms:—
"Let God arise, let His enemies be scattered; let them also that hate Him, flee before Him!"
"Let God arise, let His enemies be scattered; let them also that hate Him, flee before Him!"
So for the second time the Moslems reeled back. And when Kerbogha, sitting in the midst of his guard at the rear of the battle, saw it, he tore his beard in rising fury, and bade Kilidge Arslan the Seljouk lead his squadrons in circuit to fall on the Christians' rear. Now a third time the Moslems came forward, slowly now, horse and foot, their imams and ulamas crying to them to remember the beauty of the houris, the joys of martyrdom, and to hew in pieces the blasphemers of the Prophet.
At this Richard, who knew Arabic and the fury of the unbelievers, called to his men to lock close about the Holy Lance, for now indeed was the fated hour. Then the Christians heard, outrunning the breeze, the wild howl of the dervishes, to whom death was more welcome than a quiet sleep:—
"Hell and Eblees are behind you! Victory or Paradise before you! Forward!"
"Stand fast, men of Auvergne!" rang the Norman's command; and every lance was braced when the third shock smote them. No charging, recoiling, countercharging, in this supreme wrestle between Christ and Mohammed. The dead piled themselves higher, higher. The desert steeds were spitted like birds on the Frankish lances. The stoutest spears shivered like reeds, and targets were cleft as wicker; but the hand-to-hand combat never slackened. Kerbogha was throwing into the press all his numbers. Again and again Richard Longsword, with Gaston of Béarn, the Count of Die, and Raimbaut of Orange, who fought under Adhemar's banner, charged out, and did deeds of valor to be forgotten only with the lastjongleur. Each time, as the foe gave way, the hard-pressed Christians set up theirLaus Deo, dreaming they had the victory. But each time the infidels surged back to the onset; pressing closer, smiting harder, and drowning the Crusaders' prayer to Our Lady with their mad "Allah! Allah!"
Richard, who fought about the Holy Lance, twice saw it reel in the hands of Raymond of Agiles, as fifty unbelievers pressed close. But the Christian footmen around it were a living wall, and not a dervish who put out his hands to grasp the lance turned back alive. Still the battle wavered. Rumors came down the line, now that Godfrey on the centre was victorious, now that Bohemond was desperately beset by Kilidge Arslan. Richard looked to his men; gaps in the lines. Brave fellows whom he loved well were moaning or speechless under those red heaps. But the infidels were still thronging in. The gaps were closed. The fight raged as though the blood spilled were but oil cast into a furnace.
And presently as Richard fought around the lance, he saw a stately figure in gilded armor that he knew well despite the closed helmet,—saw it come pressing through the ranks of the Moslems.
"Ho! Iftikhar Eddauleh," rang the Norman's challenge, as the roar of the conflict lulled for a twinkling, "face to face, and man to man!"
The only answer by the Ismaelian was a lowered lance, and Rollo flew out to greet the charge. For a moment those standing by gave place. They met unhindered. Under the shock each lance flew to splinters, and the good steeds were flung on their haunches.
"Again!" burst from the emir, as his cimeter glanced in the sun. "Again!" And Richard with Trenchefer rode straight at him, the unspeakable hate blinding to all things save his foe. Three times they fenced, and the sparks flew at every stroke. With the fourth, Trenchefer sheared off the black plumes on the Ismaelian's crest. A sweeping blow from Iftikhar answered, but Richard's stout shield parried it.
"God wills it! St. Julien and Mary Kurkuas!" shouted the Norman, flinging his old battle-cry in the face of his mortal foe. But the ruling powers would not let these mad spirits fight longer. Suddenly, in a way none could foresee, the line of battle, as it will, swayed in a great shock; and here Moslems were thrown back, here forward, and comrades were torn asunder. The two were caught in the eddy and whirled wide apart, bitterly against their wills.
"The lance! The lance is in danger!" the Christians were shouting; and Richard saw the holy standard sink out of sight in the seething vortex of battling men and beasts.
"Rescue, rescue, Christian cavaliers!" Bishop Adhemar was moaning; and all unarmed as he was, the prelate was about to thrust himself from behind the protecting shield wall into the death-press. But Gaston of Béarn and Die and Orange, as well as Longsword, were before him. Richard saw Gaston snatch the lance out of the clutch of two Turkomans who grasped it, and hew down both—a blow for each. Then the lance was raised once more, and all Crusaders praised God, and fought more stoutly.
So for long the battle raged; no man knowing how it had fared farther down the line, having wits only for his own struggle, and fighting even that blindly. But suddenly upon the wind black smoke came driving down upon the Christians. At first they scarce knew it in the fierce delirium. Then the smoke came denser, hotter; dimming their eyes, and setting all a-gasping. And almost sooner than the telling, the very grass under their feet was in a flame, fanned onward by a breeze that dashed the fire in their faces, while the deadly blast swept away from the Moslems. Whereupon, for the first time that day, a terrible panic fell on the Christians, as even the dead soil seemed thus to rise up and war against them. Men cast down their swords to flee,—all the horses plunged wildly; while with a shout of triumph, the infidels, blessing their Prophet, pressed on to snatch the victory.
But at the very moment when all the world seemed turned to ruin, Bishop Adhemar ran down the line up-bearing the crucifix. A hundred paynim arrows sped toward him; not one flew true, for some angel turned all aside.
"See!" was his cry above the howls of the dervishes. "See, Christians, the sufferings of your Lord! Stand fast, if you would prove that Christ died not in vain!"
And when the Franks thought of their God upon the tree,—of the Holy Agony,—their own agony was forgot. Wounded men, whose life was running out in blood, sprang to their feet and fought like Roland's peers; those who had turned to flee, looked back, ran again into the press through the mad flames, and gave the Moslems blow for blow.
Yet this could not last forever; the limit to what human might could do was very near. Denser the smoke, hotter the fire. Barely with all his strength could Richard now hold Rollo, and he knew while yet he fought, that unless the smoke were turned, the boast of Kerbogha would not be vain. A wail of despair was rising from the Christians: "Kyrie eleison! Kyrie eleison!" and the triumphant "Allah akhbar!" of the Moslems seemed the sole answer.
Then, even with his sinful and corporeal eyes, each Crusader had proof that on his side strove the Lord of Battles! For as the smoke blew blinding, with a great gust the wind changed, and the fire that Kilidge Arslan had lit for his foes' destruction turned to his own. Strong and fresh from the west came a piping sea-breeze, and the smoke swept in one heavy cloud into the faces of the infidels! So sudden the deliverance, that the Franks stood speechless, marvelling at this great act of God. And while thus they stood, Bishop Adhemar pointed with his staff toward the northern hills.
"Behold, Christians! Three knights clothed in white armor, the succor promised by God! The martyrs George, Demetrius, and Theodore fight for us! Forward, all who love Our Lord!"
Forward and ever forward. No faltering now, for it was the Moslems that were howling to the Prophet to save them from the smoke and the flame, and were shrinking back in panic. Down the line the Christian trumpets were sounding the charge, and the news flew fast that Godfrey and Tancred were sweeping all before them, while Hugh and Bohemond held their own.
Then a marvellous madness seized the host of Adhemar. It was midday; they were starving; they had fought for life since dawn, but each man felt his feet wings when crossing that fire-seared plain.
"God wills it! Death to the infidels!"
At the cry even the dervishes gave way. The onrush of the Christians made the unbelievers scatter to the four winds; the fleet desert-steeds of the horsemen, caught in the press and panic, struggled vainly to escape and lead the flight. The Franks were upon them! the Franks had been granted victory by Allah! It was fate! Let who could shun his doom!
"And the stars in their courses fought against Sisera!" cried Sebastian, swinging his mace at the head of the St. Julien men as they joined in the onset. Then suddenly as had changed the wind, the Christians hardened their ranks to endure again the shock; for, brushing aside their fleeing comrades, came the white-robed "devoted,"—the Ismaelians, held by Iftikhar as a last reserve,—sent forth to snatch victory out of the jaws of defeat; twelve thousand wild spirits whose one longing was to slay Christians, and hasten to the embraces of the black-eyed maids of Paradise. Fair upon the Frankish line, broken and disorganized even by victory, Iftikhar flung his thunderbolt. Over the dead and over the living charged the Ismaelians. With them went again the battle-shout raised by so many Moslem armies, never in vain:—
"La ilaha ill' Allah! La ilaha ill' Allah!"
"Bear up, Christians! This is the last charge!" urged Gaston of Béarn, but more than brave words were needed to turn that blast. The "devoted" smote the Frankish spear hedge, and for the first time that day broke through it. The Holy Lance went down under twenty slain; the Christian war-cry was drowned by the howl of the Ismaelians: "Allah akhbar!Victory! Victory!" As out of a dream, Richard saw that the battle had swept round him, with only hostile faces on every side. But he had no time to think of peril; for he was face to face again with Iftikhar Eddauleh himself, and at the sight he sent Rollo straight against the grand prior.
"Again! Cid Iftikhar, let God judge between us!" he cried. But the Ismaelian avoided the shock, swerving to one side, and answered: "Fool! Allah has already judged! Take him prisoner, slaves! Pluck him from his horse!"
Nothing easy; for though twenty of the "devoted" leaped to the ground to do as bidden, they found nothing sweet in the taste of Trenchefer. Richard put the face of Mary Kurkuas before his eyes while he fought: should he never see her more? The thought made his arm strong as forged steel. But just as the Ismaelians were crying to their lord that the terrible Frank could never be taken alive, and begging to use their swords, a blow of a mace crushed Longsword's right shoulder. His arm sank at his side, and Trenchefer nigh dropped from the numbed fingers. He saved the sword with his left hand, casting away the shield.
"Yours! Seize! Bind!" exhorted Iftikhar. Yet even now there was a struggle, for Rollo that loved his master well made his great hoofs fly as he plunged and reared, and Richard's left arm dealt no weak blow.
"Cowards!" thundered the grand prior; "let me curb in the horse!" But while he pressed nearer, a terrible howl of dread went up from the "devoted" themselves.
"Allah save us! All is lost! The Christians conquer!"
And as Iftikhar and Richard looked about them they saw the "battles" of Tancred and Godfrey, that had not endured the Ismaelian's charge, bearing down in serried line to drive this last Moslem squadron from the field.
"Turn, Iftikhar Eddauleh!" Louis de Valmont's voice was ringing, "turn, and fight!" But Iftikhar only gave a bitter curse, and spurred away among his men. Adhemar's division had been shattered, not dispersed. The Christians were pressing in on all sides. The cry was spreading that Kilidge Arslan was in flight. The Franks saw Iftikhar re-forming his "devoted"—much less than twelve thousand now, though none had fled away; they half heard the imprecation he called upon them if they rode in vain. They formed, they charged; each rider a demon upon a steed possessed. They cast away their lives with an awful gladness. But the Christian spear wall was as iron, though pressed by springing steel. There was no other charge. Where the Ismaelians struck, they fought; where they fought, they died; and where they died, no other Moslems leaped to take their place. The thunderbolt had fallen—the storm had passed!
And now praised be God the Son, and Mary ever Blessed! The infidels were become as stubble to Prince Tancred's sword, and to Bohemond, Hugh, and Godfrey. Loud and victorious sounded now the chant, ever repeated:—
"Let God arise; let His enemies be scattered!"
And scattered they were! "How is it, Lord?" said the chronicler; "how dare men say that it was not Thy doings that the great host of Kerbogha melted like the spring snows before us, when we were weak with famine, and one where they were three? How, save by Thy help, did our poor jaded steeds fly like eagles after their Arabs, and overtake those chargers swifter than the lightnings? How, save by Thy grace, did Prince Tancred ride alone against an hundred, and see them flee as leaves before the gale?" How? The whole army knew, for the age of doubting had not come.
"Not unto us, Lord; not unto us! But unto Thy name be the glory!" was the prayer of Adhemar, as he stood with his priests about him, while far to the eastward and northward drifted the rout and pursuing. For there was no valor in the Moslems now. Their chiefs fled swiftest of all; one way Kerbogha, another Dekak of Damascus, another Kilidge Arslan. And their camp with a treasure worth half the wealth of France, and swarming with eunuchs and harem women, had become a spoil to the servants of God and His Christ. The thought however was not of spoil, but of pursuit and vengeance. Loudest of all among the priests sounded the voice of Sebastian, urging on the warriors.
"The heathen are sunk down into the pit that they made; in the net which they made is their own foot taken! Pursue—follow after; tarry not; for this is the acceptable day of the Lord—the day when one of you shall chase a thousand; when you shall smite the infidels as Israel smote Amalek—man and woman, infant and suckling, ox and sheep, camel and ass! Destroy, let not one escape!"
Fierce and unflagging the pursuit. Tancred mounted his footmen as swiftly as they could capture horses, and hunted the fleeing Moslems over plain and mountain. Here and there the despairing Turks and Arabians turned like beasts at bay when the terrible Franks crashed on them. But there was no strength left in a Moslem's arm. Doom—doom against the servants of the Prophet had been decreed by the stars—not the might of all Islam could turn back the stroke of fate. Here and there the raging Christians came on foes who cast down the useless weapons, and stretching out their hands, cried in a tongue which all knew: "Quarter! Mercy!" But they had better pleaded with stones; for that day there was none of mercy. The battle had begun with the morning; the shadows were lengthening on the hills when Tancred turned back his pursuers near Harin, halfway to Aleppo, and rode back toward Antioch, still galloping, for fear his comrades had squandered all the spoil.
Long before the last chase was ended, Richard Longsword had been borne to the city. Despite his crushed shoulder and lifeless arm, he had urged on Rollo to the pursuit, almost hoping that he would meet Iftikhar once more; though how, all maimed, he could have fought the Ismaelian, St. Michael only knew. He saw the last struggle around the encampment of Kerbogha, where the camp-followers tried to defend the palisade and were destroyed by firing the barrier; he saw the Christians dragging out the spoil,—rarest silk and webs of Ind, and unpriced gems; fifteen thousand sumpter camels; howling slave girls; shivering servants. He knew that the great battle, the battle against the infidel he and his fellows had dreamed of so long, had been fought, and won; and that the tale of the victory would fly from Britain to Tartary. And yet he half felt a sense of sadness: he had met Iftikhar Eddauleh face to face, and yet the Ismaelian lived. They told him that when the last charge failed Iftikhar had turned his steed's head and ridden away, joining Kerbogha and the fleeing emirs andatabegs. Then Richard breathed a deep curse; for he knew, though no clear reason came, that the grand prior, coward though his flight had proven him, would in some way work great ill either to himself or those he loved. He bade the St. Julieners search the camp to find if Mary Kurkuas and Musa had been present at the battle. No trace; he was at once saddened and relieved. Then, just as the first procession of triumph, laden with dainties and rich wines from the camp for the starving city-folk, was preparing to enter Antioch, the Norman felt of a sudden the firm earth whirling, and as his sight dimmed, the din in his ears drowned all theGloriasandTe Deumsof the rejoicing multitude. Herbert saw him reel on Rollo's back, and caught him just as he dropped to the earth. Sebastian loosed his casque—found it full of blood; a dervish's blade had cleft to the bone. His shoulder was crushed; from ten more spots he was bleeding. The St. Julieners laid their baron on a litter of lances and bore him to the city. Nor did Richard know aught more for many days.
Wrong had been done Iftikhar, when the Franks boasted he had fled headlong with Kerbogha and his cowardatabegs. Had all his peers in the Moslem host fought as he, there might have been fewer ChristianGlorias. Where death was thickest he had sought it. Under his cimeter had sped many a Frankish life. At the end he had led the final charge of his "devoted," maddest rider in all that headlong band. But doom had been against him; the Ismaelians had died where they could not conquer. Iftikhar, escaping fifty deaths, had thrown himself into a band of flying Turkomans, beseeching, threatening, adjuring, to make them turn for a last stand. One howl met his prayer.
"Fate is against us! Flee! Flee! Allah aids the Franks!"
He struck the fugitives with his cimeter; they fled more swiftly. He thrust his beast across their path; the good Arabian was nigh swept down in the vortex of the panic. Panic everywhere, the Franks flying after, each Christian a raging jinn whose joy was slaying.
Then at last Iftikhar knew he could do no more, and he turned the head of his wounded steed to ride on the Christian lances. But just as he was casting shield away, that death might light more quickly, the hand of a strange rider plucked his saddle rein, and before the grand prior could strike at the unknown, Zeyneb's voice sounded in his ears above the "Montjoye!" of the onrushing French:
"What, Cid? You ride to death?"
"Unhand!" thundered Iftikhar, "all is lost! I know how to die!"
But Zeyneb with a wondrous strength had tugged at the bits and swung the charger's head; and close by, the Egyptian saw another rider, unarmored, in a flowing dress,—but the face was turned from him.
"You are mad, lord!" cried Zeyneb. "Do not cast yourself away. Fate will change, Allah willing!"
Then, as Iftikhar struggled to turn, a squadron of flying Persian light horse struck them, and swept the three riders away perforce in its flight.
"Faster, faster!" the Persians were shrieking; "the Franks! Their horses are vultures! their strength as of monsters!"
Iftikhar cursed while he strove vainly to escape them and ride against the pursuers.
"Fools, sons of pigs and Jews!" roared he; "see, scarce ten men follow, and you an hundred. Turn; ride them down!"
"They are ten sheytans," yelled the rest, spurring harder. "Speed, brothers, speed!"
Iftikhar glanced back. Behind him flew De Valmont and Tancred, who knew him by his armor, and taunted:—
"Face to face, Cid Iftikhar; did you fly thus at Palermo?"
But the Persians pricked their beasts to a headlong gallop; the Franks rode down some, and slew them; the rest made their escape. When the Christians left the chase in the evening, Iftikhar found himself with a wounded and weary steed upon the bare Syrian hill slope, with only Zeyneb for escort. The strangely dressed rider he had noticed, followed half an arrow flight behind; but the Egyptian gave little heed. Hardly had he drawn rein before another squadron of breathless riders joined him, their horses' flanks in blood and foam. Their chief was Kerbogha, master that morning of two hundred thousand sword-hands, master that night of scarce fifty. Iftikhar bowed his casque in gloomy salutation, but the lord of Mosul did not return it.
"Cid Iftikhar," came his words, cold as ice, "we have played our chess-game with fortune. Mated! and we play no more! Forget that I have known you!"
"I do not understand, my lord!" protested Iftikhar, his color rising.
"Clearer, then," and Kerbogha peered backward, lest the Frankish banners tossed again in the gloaming. "We went to Antioch first to crush the Franks, but also to gather, unhindered and unsuspected, an army to grind Barkyarok and the Kalif. We gathered the army. Where it is now, demand of the winds and the blood-red plain! Our plot is ended. Barkyarok will suspect. Let Hassan Sabah gain his empire in his own way. I must save myself by forswearing the Ismaelians and be all loyalty to the arch-sultan. As for you, let Allah save or slay, you are neither friend nor foe to me. Go your way; forget me, as I forget you!"
"But our oaths—our pledge of comradeship till death!" urged Iftikhar, in rising wrath.
"Death? A hundred thousand dead Moslems have wiped out the bond. Cursed be the day I listened to your plots!"
"Then answer sword to sword!" raged the Egyptian, in frenzy, and ready to join mortal grapple. But a shout from the emir's escort sent Kerbogha fleeing away, without so much as replying.
"The Franks! They follow! Flight, flight!"
A false alarm, but the lord of Mosul and his fifty had vanished in the thickening twilight; his speed such that the hoof-beats were soon faint in the distance. Iftikhar looked about him. The night was sowing the stars. The young moon was shining with its feathery crescent. Far and wide stretched the desolate hills, fast fading into one black waste. Lost! the battle lost! the hope of empire lost! the vengeance on Richard lost! the love of Mary Kurkuas lost! He had only a wounded horse, his cimeter, and his arms. That morning twelve thousand men would have died for him at his nod. Yes, and had died! It was the stroke of doom, the doom that had been written a million years, before Allah called the heavens out of smoke, the earth out of darkness; and there was no escaping. The Christians had turned back to Antioch, but Iftikhar knew where to find them. He could ride back on his tracks, enter their camp, slay seven men before dying himself, and give the lie to the taunts of De Valmont and Tancred. So doing he would save one last treasure—his honor.
"Zeyneb!" he said sternly, "go your way. You are at the end of your service. I must ride to Antioch."
"And why to Antioch, Cid?"
"To win back the honor you stole from me."
Iftikhar had leaped to the ground to tighten his girths, when the strange rider came beside him and dismounted. As he rose from his task, he saw a veiled woman facing him; and while he started and trembled, she swept the veil from her face. Morgiana standing in the moonlight!
For an instant not a word passed. Then Iftikhar spoke: "Morgiana, surely Eblees will gain you at last, since he sends you here." His voice was shaking with towering passion.
"I have come to save you, my Cid," answered she.
"To save me?" burst from the Egyptian. "To save me? To drag down to Gehenna rather; to speed me to endless torture!"
She turned her face away. "Not that," she pleaded, "not that. Have I not loved you, and been ever faithful?"
He sprang at her, caught her by the throat.
"You have indeedloved me! Hearken: through your love for me you strengthened the Greek to resist me; through your love for me you saved Richard and his comrades, and plucked the Greek from me; through your love the accursed Norman and Duke Godfrey were able to escape, to warn their army, when ready to drop unresisting into the net spread by Kerbogha. This siege, this battle, this loss of myriads, is your handiwork; isyours,—and for it you shall die. Would to Allah I had killed you long ago!"
He had drawn his cimeter, and brandished above her. She raised her eyes and looked at him unflinching.
"Wallah!" cried he, wavering, "there is magic in your eyes. The sheytans aid you! Yet you shall die!"
Morgiana's face was not pale now; all the blood had returned; her eyes were brighter than red coals. She wrested her neck from his grasp, and caught his sword-hand, held it fast, with a strange, giant-like strength that frighted him.
"Strike!" cried she; "but as Allah lives and judges, first hear. Where are your twelve thousand? I have seen them all dead. Your hopes of power? Sped to the upper air. And the Greek? Allah knoweth. All these lost, but not I. No, by the All-Great you shall not strike until you hear me; for I am strong—stronger than you. I have been cursed, but have not replied; been hated, but paid in love; been wronged, but remained faithful. Now hope goes to ruin; war, love, friends,—all is lost,—saving I. But me you shall not lose. Either on earth you shall keep me near, to joy in your joys, to sorrow in your sorrows; or dying, my spirit shall be yet closer, to follow your path in heaven, earth, or hell—bittering every sweet, trebling every woe, haunting, goading, torturing, until you curse tenfold the hour you forgot the love of Morgiana, maid of Yemen!"
And when Morgiana had spoken, she cast Iftikhar's hand from her, and bowed her head, as if waiting the stroke. But the Ismaelian's arm had fallen. He stood as in a trance, for before his storm-driven soul passed the vision of that Morgiana of other days, before the babe died and he set eyes on the Greek,—those days when he boasted he asked no Paradise, for the kiss of the fairest houri was already his. His sword-arm trembled. The woman said not a word, but raised her eyes again, not burning, but mild and tender he saw them now, lit with soft radiance in the dim moonlight. He felt the mad fury chained as by some resistless spell. Presently he spoke, the words dragged as it were from the depths of his soul:—
"Some jinn is aiding you! Live then this once. I shall be cursed again for sparing."
Morgiana's only answer was to kneel and kiss his feet. Then she rose and stood with bent head and folded arms waiting his wishes. But Zeyneb had flitted between.
"Cid," he said abruptly, "there are horsemen approaching, very likely Christians; the gallop is that of heavy northern horses. Let us ride."
"Ride?" asked the dazed Iftikhar, "whither?" And he looked at Morgiana. His iron will was broken; he was content to let her lead him. She had already remounted.
"Toward Emesa, my Cid," she said directly.
"And what is there?" asked he, still dazed.
"The road to Egypt. You have still a name and a fame. All is not lost while Allah gives life. You are still young. The Egyptian kalif will rejoice to welcome such a warrior to his service."
"Mashallah!" cried Iftikhar, raising his hands, "when did you devise all this for me?"
"Many days since, lord. For in the hemp smoke it was written Kerbogha and the 'devoted' should fail."
"And you have been hidden at El Halebah?"
"No," she replied, "I have been closer than you dreamed, in your tents before Antioch, concealed by Zeyneb, to be near you when the need should be great. When the Christians stormed the camp I was taken by Duke Godfrey. In gratitude he set me free, and gave me a horse. I found Zeyneb and followed after you, that you might not cast your life away."
He went up to her as she sat on the saddle, put his arms about her, kissed her many times. And upon that Syrian hillside, under the stars, Morgiana found her moment of Paradise. He said nothing; but the Arabian laughed as she looked up at the sky.
"Praised be Allah, All-merciful," she cried. "The old is sped, the new is waiting. Mary the Greek is gone—will be forgotten. May I never hear word of her again!"
"I have been blind to the love of this woman," muttered Iftikhar, bounding into the saddle; "I have been blind, and Heaven restores sight. Yet if Mary the Greek is to be forgotten, may she never again cross my path. But this is left to Allah."
Of the weary days passed by Richard Longsword while his wound was healing, of how Sebastian and Herbert bled him, poulticed him with poppy leaves, and physicked him with sage, there is no time to tell. Neither is there space to relate the lesser misfortunes that befell the Crusaders, after the greatest misfortune at the hands of Kerbogha had been escaped through Heaven's mercy. For in the days that the army waited in Antioch a great plague fell upon it, which swept away all the weak and aged the famine had spared. Chief amongst those taken was Bishop Adhemar, who was not permitted in this mortal body to see the triumph of the cause he loved so well. There were quarrels and desertions amongst the chiefs. Hugh of Vermandois went away to Constantinople and returned no more. Raymond of Toulouse, and Bohemond, who took Antioch for his own principality, were at strife unceasing,—once passing the lie before the very altar. Thus the season was wasted, and the host frittered away its time around Antioch. Richard recovered and grew mightily impatient. To Jerusalem he must go, or the blood of Gilbert de Valmont must rest upon his soul. Long since the desire of knightly adventure had been fully sated. But his northern determination was unshaken as ever. His heart was always running ahead of the loitering host. To sweeten his delay, a letter had come through a Jew merchant from Tyre. Musa's tale had been received in Kerbogha's camp; he had been kindly entreated, but he had at once obtained transport to Tyre, whence he expected a ship for Egypt. Mary was well. In Egypt she would await the end of the war. Then, however Allah might rule the issue, Richard would be free to return homeward, and could receive back Mary safe and spotless from his brother's care.
So Richard took courage, and counted the days till once more he could see the pleasant hills of Auvergne, the teeming valley; and dreamed of the hours when he would sit in the castle halls, with Mary at his side, and how they would fleet the days under the ancient trees beside the green-banked fosse, forever, forever. But those blessed days could not come till the Holy City was ransomed; and no spirit was gladder than Longsword's when the host started southward in the long-awaited springtime.
At last the army had begun its final march, not an emir drawing sword against it; for the fear of Frankish valor had spread over all Islam. None of the host had desire for besieging any city save Jerusalem, and when they sat down before Archas they met only discomfiture. But while before Archas, Peter Barthelmy, puffed with pride, vowed he would silence those who ventured—after safe lapse of time—to doubt the miracle of the holy lance. Waxing confident, and boasting new visions from St. Andrew, he offered himself for the ordeal. In the presence of the whole host he passed down a lane of blazing fagots. None denied that he left the flames alive; but a few days later he was dead. "Impostor," cried the Northern French, who said the fire smote him, as being a deceiver. But the Provençals called him a martyr, having passed through the flames unhurt, but trampled down by his enemies in the throng when he came forth from the fire. As for Sebastian, he would only cock one eye, when asked of the miracle of the lance, and keep silence. Once Theroulde said to his face:—
"Father, were you a sinful man, I should say you were itching to peddle forth a good story."
But the story Sebastian never told.
Soon enough poor Barthelmy's fate was forgotten. For the host was now treading a soil made sacred by the steps of prophets and apostles and holy men of old. The Franks forgot weary feet, the long journey and all its pains, when the march wound under the rocky spurs of Lebanon, and by the green Sidonian country. From Tyre they saw the blue sea, behind whose distant sky-line they knew beloved France was lying. They traversed the plain of Acre, climbed Carmel's towering crest. And now the swiftest marching seemed feeble. Jerusalem was nigh—Jerusalem, the city of God, goal of every hope, for whose deliverance myriads had laid down their lives. The toilsome way through Illyria, the passage-at-arms at Dorylæum, the march of agony through "Burning Phrygia," the starving, the death grapple in battle, and the pestilence at Antioch—all forgotten now! "God wills it! To Jerusalem!" was the cry that made the eager steps press onward from sun to sun; and men found the summer nights too long that held them back. A strange ecstasy possessed the army. Without warning whole companies would break out into singing, clashing their arms and running forward with holy gladness.
"God is with us! The saints are with us! Jerusalem is at hand!" was the shout that flew from lip to lip, as the host passed Sharon, and prepared to strike off from the coast road for the final burst of speed across the Judean plains to the Holy City. Richard rode on, as in an unearthly dream. Half he thought to see legions of angels and hoary prophets rise from behind each hilltop. When he set eyes on a great boulder, a thrill passed at the thought, "Jesus Christ doubtless has looked on this." Almost sacrilege it was for Rollo to pound the dusty road; blessed dust—had it not felt the mortal tread of fifty holy ones, now reigning in eternal light?
So the march hastened. When the dusty columns tramped through Lydda, every man beat his breast, and said hisPater noster, in memory of St. George the warrior, who there had won his martyr's crown. At Ramla they halted to adore the very ground where Samuel the Prophet of God had been born.
And now at the end of a day's march they were only sixteen short miles from Jerusalem, and the leaders held a council. For some who even to the last were faint-hearted wished to march past Jerusalem and strike Egypt, since it was said water and provisions were failing about the Holy City. But Godfrey, standing in the assembly, said after his pure, trustful manner:—
"We came to Palestine, not to smite the Egyptian kalif, but to free the tomb of Christ. Bitterly reduced as we are in numbers, let us only go straight on. Will God, who plucked us out of the clutch of Kilidge Arslan and Kerbogha, suffer us to fail at the last? Up tents! weariness, away! and forward this very night!"
Then all the braver spirits cried with one voice: "We will not fail! God wills it!" So the order spread through the camp, though hardly yet pitched, to march forward at speed; and when the army heard it they blessed God, and each man strode his swiftest to be the first to set eyes on Jerusalem.
It was the evening of the ninth of June in the year of grace one thousand and ninety-nine; three years and a half since the great cry had swelled around Urban at Clermont, that the Christian army set out for this last march to the Holy City. The Christian army—alas! not the army that had ridden forth from France,—that had arrayed itself so splendidly on the plains of Nicæa! For of the hundred thousands, there were scarce fifty thousand left; and of these, twelve thousand alone were in full state for battle. The bones of the martyrs lined the long road from the Bosphorus to Judea. Many had fallen behind, sick; many had turned back craven. But the head of an army dies hardest; of the twelve thousand warriors that pricked their weary steeds across the arid Syrian land, not one but was a man of iron with a soul of steel. Bohemond and Hugh and Stephen of Blois had deserted; but Robert the Norman was there, with Raymond of Toulouse, Tancred, and Godfrey, bravest of the brave.
A little after nightfall they struck camp, with the bright eastern stars twinkling above them. As they marched, they saw before them all the plains and mountains ablaze, where the commandant of Jerusalem was burning the outlying villages, to desolate the country against their coming. Richard Longsword, who rode with Tancred and a picked corps sent ahead to seize Bethlehem, heard the tales of the despairing native Christians who came straggling in to greet their deliverers. They blessed the saints in their uncouth Syriac for the help they had awaited so long, and bade the Franks be speedy with vengeance; for the Egyptian governor was breathing out cruelty against the servants of Christ.
"And who may this commandant be?" demanded the Norman of an old peasant who spoke a little Greek.
"Iftikhar Eddauleh, once of the cursed Ismaelians, lord," answered the fugitive, whimpering when he glanced toward his blazing vineyard. "Oh! press on, for the love of Christ! The Egyptians have driven my son and my daughter like sheep inside of Jerusalem, to hold as hostages. They say that the emir even threatens to destroy the tomb of Our Lord in his mad ragings!"
Richard thundered out a terrible oath.
"Now, by the Trinity and Holy Cross, God do so to me if Iftikhar Eddauleh long escape the devil! He, emir of Jerusalem! Praised be every saint, we shall yet stand face to face!"
And under the starlight Rollo, as if knowing that the last stretch of the weary road had come, ran onward with his long, unflagging gallop. It was very dark; but the red glare of the villages was sure beacon. Once Rollo stumbled and barely recovered. Longsword dropped his companions one by one. A single thought possessed him now,—over those dark, low-lying hills, barely traced under the stars, lay Jerusalem—City of God on earth! And in Jerusalem waited his mortal foe, and the vengeance he had wooed so long! Vengeance, sweet as the kiss of Mary Kurkuas; sweeter, if so might be. In his revery, as he galloped, he saw neither hills, nor stars, nor road; he dreamed only of Trenchefer carving its way through the Ismaelian.
Vengeance, the clearing of his vow, return to France, to love—all these just on before! Richard was lost in the vision. Suddenly the click and thunder of a steed at headlong pace shook him from the revery. What rider this, that gained on Rollo? A voice through the darkness:—
"Ho! friend; why so fast? Your company!"
It was the voice of Godfrey. Richard had reined instinctively. The Duke was beside him.
"By St. George, fair lord," cried the Norman, "where is your own corps? Why ride you here alone?"
Godfrey laughed under his helmet.
"Could I leave Tancred the glory and the boast, 'I first set eyes on the Holy City'? Under cover of the dark I left Baldwin du Bourg to bring up my men, and spurred forward. I knew that with me would ride one whose right arm is none the weakest."
"Forward, then!" returned Richard; "I have joy in your company, my lord."
"Please God, we shall meet a few infidels and avenge the burned villages," muttered Godfrey, as they flew on. "Ten paynims to one Christian are fair odds with Jerusalem so nigh!"
But the wish was unrealized. They rode for a while in silence; met no more fugitives, nor any of the garrison. Presently the horses fell to a walk. The light of the burning hamlets died away. Very dark—only in the farthest east there was a dim redness. No smouldering farmhouse, a light brightening slowly, slowly. A soft warm southern wind was creeping across the plain. To the left the twain just saw black cedars massed in a dark ravine. There was an awe and hush on all the earth. Behind came the clink of arms, the click of men and steeds; but from Tancred's company drifted no murmur. Who craved speech at such an hour? Slower the steps of the horses. A hill slope extended before—a blank form in the dark. The wind seemed to hush as they advanced. Richard knew that never in all life had awe possessed him more utterly. He heard the water trickling in a hidden brooklet. Out of a tamarisk whirred a wild partridge. How great the noise! Did Rollo know he trod down holy ground, his great feet fell so softly? The sky grew brighter—rocks, trees, hillocks springing to being; the blackness was gray, the gray was tinged with red, the stars were fading.
Godfrey whispered softly to Richard:—
"From what the pilgrims say, we now climb the Mount of Olives. Before us lies the chapel of the Ascension, beyond—Jerusalem! Let us kneel and pray that God make us worthy to behold His Holy City."
The two knights dismounted, fell on their knees, their hearts almost too full even for silent prayer. "So many agonies, so bitter loss, so many days! At last! At last!" This was all Richard Longsword knew. He tried to confess his sins; to saymea culpa, but his one thought was of thanksgiving. With Godfrey he rose and led Rollo by the bridle upward. They ascended slowly, reverently, counting each rock and nestling olive tree. And with their mounting, mounted the light. Now Richard looked back—a wide, dim landscape faded away into the rosy east, peaks and plain, more peaks all desolate, and farthest of all a little steel-gray shimmer, where he knew the Dead Sea lay. Still the light strengthened, making all the landscape red gold; the naked chalk rock to the west lit with living fire. Behind hasted the whole van—footmen running abreast of the horsemen, priests outstripping the warriors, and one priest speeding before all—Sebastian. He overtook the two knights, breathless with his speed; but the new light not brighter than the light in his eyes. He said nothing. The three pressed forward. Four and twenty hours, barely halting, all had advanced, but who was weary?
Suddenly the host behind broke forth chanting as they toiled upward,—the psalm tenfold louder in the morning stillness:—
"Great is the Lord, and greatly to be praisedIn the city of our God, in the mountain of His holiness.Beautiful for situation, the joy of the whole earth,Is Mount Zion, on the sides of the north,The city of the great King."
The chant went up to heaven and seemed to call forth more light from the glowing east. Suddenly every voice hushed,—silence as never before. For all thoughts went deeper than word or cry. The last mist stole upward, a thin gray haze; the sun-ball hung behind the highest peak of Moab. His tip crept above it; Longsword glanced back. A cry from Sebastian recalled him.
"Jerusalem!"
It came as a great cry and sigh in one from the priest. He had cast himself on the bare summit and kissed the holy rock.
Richard and Godfrey looked westward, and bathed in the dawn—they saw the Holy City. They saw gray walls and a dim brown country, naked almost of tree or shrub, and white houses peering above frowning battlements. Dominating over all they saw the dome of the mosque on the Sacred Rock,—token of the enemies of Christ. What mattered it now?
"Jerusalem! Jerusalem!" the cry was passing down the line, and made the climbing easy as though on eagle's wings.
"Jerusalem! Jerusalem!" Richard saw strong men falling on their faces, as had he. And his and every other's cheek was wet, for tears would come,—no shame when they looked upon the city of their risen Lord! Gray stones and brown cliffs, thorns and thistles, dust and drought, naked plains, burned by blasting heat; so be it! This their goal, the object of an untold agony! Could human hearts be filled so full and not break? Godfrey flung his arms about Richard, and their iron lips exchanged the kiss of awful gladness. Words they had none, save that one word. They named the Holy City a thousand times: "Jerusalem! Jerusalem!" And men prayed God then and there to die, for already their souls were wrapt to heaven. Tancred the haughty, who had just come up, saw at his side a simple man-at-arms, a plodding peasant's son; but the great Prince had forgotten all, save that for both one Saviour died.
"My brother! My brother in Christ!" Tancred was pleading, as he gave the kiss of love, "Pray for me! pray for me! I am a very sinful man!"
They remained thus upon the mountain, weeping and laughing and stretching forth their hands, till the sun had risen far above the mountains. Had the Egyptians sallied forth to smite, scarce a sword would have flashed, so dear seemed martyrdom. But at length the hour of transfiguration was past. Godfrey had risen for the last time from his knees. He mounted and pointed with his good sword to the minarets and the clusters of spears upon the lowering battlements.
"Forward, Christians!" rang the command; "the infidels still hold the City of God! Forward! there is yet one fight to be won in Our Lord's dear name!"
Then another cry thundered from the army, each blade leaping from scabbard:—
"God wills it! God wills it!" And the unbelievers must have seen the Mount of Olives a sea of flashing steel, while the bulwarks of Zion rang with the shouting.
"Yes," Richard heard from Sebastian, bowing low his head, "this truly is the will of God! The hour of my deliverance from this evil world is nigh."
The ranks closed, and as the host marched down the slopes of Olivet, the priests sang, advancing:—