Again high noon. The Syrian sun beat pitilessly, but Richard and his peers thought little of sun or star that Friday as they toiled on the levers and ropes of the greatbeffroi, the siege tower of Godfrey. From daybreak they had been urging the ponderous fabric across rock and ravine, though its three tall stories of rough-hewn timber quaked and tottered on the rollers, though its facing of undressed hides had turned a hundred blazing arrows. Half the day they had wrought, while their crossbowmen vainly strove to quench the showers of missiles the Nubians rained upon them. Now, with the tower five hundred feet from its goal, lo! all the sally-ports and the broad gates of Herod and of St. Stephen were flung wide, and forth sallied the garrison,—ebon devils whose only whiteness was their teeth.
"At them, Christians! Forward, in Our Lady's name!" rang the cry of Duke Godfrey. Then all around the tower had surged the battle, the infidels calling "Fire!" and the Christians struggling to save it; but in the end the Moslems were flung back, thinned and saddened by Frankish bolts and blades. Richard, in one moment of the succeeding calm, breathed a prayer of praise to Heaven, "Gloria!Gloria!At last! At last!" for he knew that the final hour was drawing nigh. And in the lead of the Nubians, and last of them to turn back, had he not seen that figure in gilded mail he had singled for his vengeance? At the thought of that vengeance even the vision of Mary grew dim, and the weight of his own sins was forgotten. Therefore of all the mad spirits, that day of glory and of wrath, none was madder than he, and none strained the pulleys harder.
Four hundred feet still to cover; four hundred leagues seemingly were traversed easier! For while the great tower lumbered on, groaning as a dragon at his death, the unbelievers set new engines on the walls and smote the Christians, even as God smote Sodom and Gomorrah. After the arrow hail came the catapult darts of two ells long, and stones of a man's own weight blew down as snow from the housetops. After the darts and the stones came things more terrible—glass vessels spitting fire; whereupon all the ground had turned to flame, and from the tower rose smoke and the crashing of timbers.
"Greek fire! Hell loosened! Save who can!" went up the wail of the Christians. But the great Bouillon, treading amid the flames as through a gentle rain, called above the din: "Christ is still with us! Forward in His Name!" Then all courage returned. They brought vinegar and quenched the burning earth. Thebeffroishook off the fire and crept onward.
Three hundred feet now! The tower was swayed each instant by the shock of the Moslem enginery—darts, stones, fire; it withstood them all. Around the gilded crucifix, fixed high above the summit, a thousand screeching arrows of the infidels had sped. It stood unscathed against the calm blue sky, as amid a realm of eternal peace; and the Christians, looking upon the image of their Lord, rejoiced and pressed forward.
Then again the sally-ports were opened; a second sortie more furious than the last. This time the champion in gilded mail laid about him among the Christians as if Satan's self were raging against God's saints. Richard pressed hard toward him to cross swords; but the strife held them asunder. Gaston of Béarn measured strength with the arch-infidel, and all the Franks groaned when they saw the Viscount fall. But his vassals sprang over him, and locked their shields around him, making the Moslem champion give back. Godfrey, who was cast with Richard for a moment, asked, "And is this not Iftikhar Eddauleh?" The answer was a nod of the head, but he heard behind the closed helm which Longsword, contrary to wont, was wearing, the words muttered, "Father, mother, sister, brother," and knew the Egyptian would need all his might that day.
So for a second time they fought, and for a second time, though two Moslems sallied forth to one of the Christians, the defence found Frankish steel too keen. Their chief strove to rally them, but in vain. Only his sweeping blows thrust back the hardy knights, who followed the unbelievers to the very drawbridge. The gates clanged in the face of the assault, and again from battlement and flanking tower pelted the storm of death. But thebeffroistill crept on.
Two hundred feet. Tower and wall were so close that the Christian bowmen on the summit could begin to shed a counter rain of missiles upon the infidels to quench that dashing from their enginery. Richard, toiling at the lever, saw a man-at-arms, who was working a catapult, fall, stricken through by a heavy bolt. The Egyptians raised a yell of triumph from the walls; the machine stood useless. Instantly out of the press around the tower rushed a priest—Sebastian! no armor save the holy armor of his white stole. The paynim shafts buzzed over him; to flies he would have paid greater heed. Richard saw the man of fasting and prayer lay the great arrow, draw home the huge bow, press the lever. There was a howl of rage on the walls,—the tall Ammar had fallen under the shaft. Richard ran to the priest's side.
"Back, father!" shouted he, "you rush on death!"
The priest left his toil to kneel beside a stricken bowman. None save the dying heard his voice; but he pointed to the glittering Christ on the sky-raised crucifix. There was a smile on the face when Sebastian laid the head of the dead gently down. The priest looked Richard calmly in the eye, though an arrow flew between them while he spoke.
"I must be about my Father's business," was all he said. Without more words he was back at the catapult, bending, levelling, shooting more than one infidel at every bolt. High above the clangor swelled his voice at each triumph. "Die, Canaanite! die, Amorite! Thou art my battle-axe and weapons of war! With thee will I break in pieces the nations! I will break in pieces captains and rulers!"
Richard knew he was in God's hands and left him. The Christian enginery was at last beginning to tell. Under their missiles he saw the battlements crumbling; dared he hope he saw the firm curtain-wall totter? Richard knew it was long past noon. When last had he touched food or drink or tasted sleep? But when he thought of the deeds to be done ere sunset, and saw that figure in gilded mail upon the walls, he dwelt no more on thirst or slumber.
One hundred feet; every finger's length bought with ten lives, but the price was not in vain. Men were beginning to count the moments before they could set foot on the rampart. Yet at this point a terrible rumor flew through the army. "The vinegar fails! We cannot master the fire!" And as if bad news was borne by the fleeting winds, the Moslems instantly rained down more flame-pots, then still more, when nothing quenched them. In a twinkling the rock below the walls seemed burning, the rawhide facing of the tower scorched, a great cry of agony rose heavenward from the Franks.
"The devil fights against us!" howled many. But, as before, the word of Godfrey was better than ten thousand fresh sword-hands. "Stand by! Christ is greater than the devil!" he commanded. And Renard of Toul cried, "Forward, cavaliers; now is the time to die!" But Godfrey answered him, "Now is the time in Christ's strength to live." When the news came that Raymond's and Tancred's attacks had failed, his only shout was, "Praised then be St. Michael, for to us is left the victory!"
Then it was the Franks bore witness to their faith; for even the Moslems trembled when they saw those terrible knights of the West standing amid the hail of darts, while the firm soil belched flame, the tower was wrapped in smoke,—beating the fires with their swords, casting on earth with their hands, wrestling at the levers, though the levers themselves were burning, and still forcing thebeffroionward, onward!
For men were past hoping, fearing, suffering, now. In the sweet delirium their lives went out without a pang, though their bodies were flaming. And the last sight of the dying was the great crucifix and the Christ thereon, emblem of sacrifice before which lesser sacrifice was counted nothing. Not a Christian engine was working; the most were fast turning to ashes. But the tower, while it blazed, toiled forward. The burning grass at Antioch had been nothing beside this valley of death; but the wall was becoming very near. For the thousandth time Richard was straining at his lever, when Godfrey came to him.
"All is lost, De St. Julien!" came the hoarse whisper.
"Lost? And why lost, my lord?" said Richard, with a dreadful calmness.
"Hist! Look on the ground before; it slopes downward to the moat. The engineers have blundered. When the tower is tilted its crest will be below the battlement; we cannot mount upon the wall."
Richard stared upward through the smoke.
"We can beat down the battlement; it is yielding."
"Are you St. George?" cried the Duke; "every mangonel burns."
Longsword pointed to the left. "All burning save one!" his answer. There was one mangonel so close under the walls that when all its crew were shot dead no others had ventured to man it.
"As Christ died," came from Godfrey, "put that at the foot of the walls; find a breach in tencredosor the fire triumphs."
The men of St. Julien followed their seigneur. At last they knew they should fulfil their vow. The garrison, when it saw them, turned on their company all manner of fire and death. But the Auvergners who lived never counted their dead. By main force they tugged the mangonel up beside thebeffroi, trampled out the flame for an instant. A flying stone shivered Longsword's shield; Herbert thrust his own on Richard's arm, a plain shield with only the red cross of the Crusade. De Carnac fell while they set the rock of half a mule's weight in place; their seigneur pressed up the huge counterpoise; drew the rope. The long arm swept creaking into the air; every war-cry died while the huge missile sped. The rock smote the battlement where the first attacks had weakened it. The upper face of the curtain wall crumbled inward. Out of the wreck a murk of dust was rising. For fifty feet the battlement had been beaten down far lower than was the summit of the tower.
"Forward again! For the love of Christ! Forward!" Godfrey's voice; and it swelled into the sound of ocean waves as ten thousand throats reëchoed it. The Moslems were uplifting a howl of wild despair. Did they fight men or sheytans, whose home was flame? But Richard saw the champion of the gilded mail still on the ramparts. The tower was now springing toward the wall as if a spirit of life had entered, so many were the eager hands. The infidel fires were spent. The Christian bowmen were shooting so pitilessly, not an Egyptian catapult was working. Up the dizzy ladder on the rear face of the tower Longsword clambered in spite of armor. The drawbridge at the crest the stones had long since dashed to flinders; what matter? For Heaven suffered two long beams from one of the defenders' engines to fall outward. The Crusaders caught them, laid them side by side,—a bridge with width of half an ell,—a dizzy height below, but beyond, Jerusalem!
Men tell that it was the end of the third hour of that Friday afternoon,—at the very moment Jesus Christ cried, on the Cross, "It is finished!"—that the tower of Godfrey was brought beside the walls; and the cavaliers, who had faced death so many times that day, gathered on its summit, to enter the Holy City. To right and left the walls had been swept bare of defenders by the bowmen. The cry passed that a warrior in arms of white stood on the Mount of Olives, waving his shield to urge on God's soldiers,—St. George, patron of holy victory. But though the other Moslems were fled away, there was one who remained steadfast. As Longsword gained the crest of the tower, he saw at the head of the narrow bridge that figure in gilded mail, with sword bared, helmet closed, twenty Christian bolts glancing off his panoply while he awaited the first to cross. And every Frankish voice cried, "Iftikhar, emir of Jerusalem!"
Already upon the crest were standing the great Duke himself and Renard of Toul, Baldwin du Bourg, and many more. Yet for an instant none started—for it seemed tempting God to tread that bridge with fifty feet to the rock-hewn moat below, then meet the thrust of that cimeter. At Godfrey's call the bowmen threw over the Moslem a cloud of arrows; but the gilded mail was proof. Still he stood,—then with the courtliest flourish to his foes, drew back three steps from the head of the perilous bridge, leaving a foothold for his challenger. Again he stood guard, and all the Christians shouted, "A gallant knight, though infidel!" while the Duke bade the bowmen spare him; so notable a cavalier must die at a cavalier's own hands. There was an eager rush of those who would cross first, and smite the first blow,—Longsword eagerest of all. But a stranger knight leaped before him. The Frank sped over the dizzy path; stood upon the shattered wall. Once the swords met; but at the second blow the Christian dashed backward into the empty air—they heard the clang of his armor in the moat below.
"My prey!" pleaded Richard. But to his bitter wrath again, De Valmont had leaped before him, crossed the bridge, and all men kept silent while the Auvergner put forth all might and skill. Then of a sudden they saw the Moslem's thin blade lash under Louis's heavy weapon, smite full upon the side, and De Valmont went backward also. As he tumbled, a projecting beam broke his fall. In the moat they saw his stirrings, and cried out, "Still alive!" Men sought him, exclaiming, "Miracle!" But a great awe had come on the Christians. Who was this that could smite Sir Louis at ten passes? Godfrey thrust himself forward.
"Make way, fair knights! I, myself, will meet this paladin!" But Richard held him, as he touched the bridge.
"This is my own foe, my lord; your promise!"
Godfrey turned, and Richard shook the lightnings out of Trenchefer, as he ran across the narrow way. With him went a great prayer half uttered by the whole host,—"Dominus tecum!" as every man saw him standing with his feet on the brink of death, his face toward the infidel.
Richard showed naught but calmness. He trod the perilous path quickly as though he sought his bride. Trenchefer felt light as a rush to his strong right arm. The wall, the moat, the death below, he never saw; his eyes were only for that gilded mail—the mail of Iftikhar. This was the moment for which he had wept, had prayed! Behind that hated armor he saw forms never again to be met on earth—mother, father, sister, brother. He thought of the pains of his wife, and his own long sorrow. He was proud of the splendor, the valor, of the Moslem,—the greater glory in the victory. God had indeed willed that he should hew the last of the way to Jerusalem.
"THE INFIDEL GAVE WAY""THE INFIDEL GAVE WAY"
Scarce had he taken stand on the shattered parapet before the infidel was paying him blow for blow. At the third fence Longsword knew he had met his match, for no mean cavalier with a cimeter's light blade could turn a downright stroke of Trenchefer. At the fourth Richard took one step back—another would have sent him beyond love and hate. But his rage rose in him; at the fifth the infidel gave way. A great stillness was around; the sun was sinking in unclouded brightness; the Egyptians, cowering behind their battlements, bated their prayers to Allah as they gazed; the Christians forgot to invoke Our Lady. Richard, finding that a few smith's blows were profitless, fell to a slow and steady foil and fence; putting forth all his art, and every pass and feint that had never failed before. But he marvelled as he fought, seeing his subtlest strokes turned by that thin blade, which he deemed to have brushed away in a twinkling. Had he never before fenced with that cunning hand? The Moslem's shield now shattered; Longsword swept his blade low and parried; in a flash the other passed his cimeter from right hand to left, and the weapon dashed full upon the Norman's shoulder, ere he could raise Trenchefer. But the Valencia "ring-mail"—Musa's gift—was yet proof. Ere the Moslem could strike twice, Richard recovered, cast away his own shield, and pressed closer.
At a sweeping stroke of Trenchefer he slipped, and all the Franks moaned. But the infidel—gallant as his foe—did not press home the chance. Richard stood again, and struck as never before. "Paladins both!" rang from the Christians. Now at last men knew Longsword fought for life, not for vengeance only. Again the Franks began to tremble.
"The Egyptians rally; new companies mount the walls!" thundered Duke Godfrey; "beat them back or all is lost!"
The crossbowmen stood to their task like good men and true. They swept away the Nubians clustering on the battlements, but others swarmed after. A moment more, and not one but a hundred blades would close the perilous bridge.
"Across with a rush; sweep the champion down!" cried many Christians. But the great Duke answered, "Either in knightly fashion or not at all, let us take Jerusalem." His word was scarce spoken before one vast shout made the tower rock with the quaking earth, "Gloria tibi, Domine!" Trenchefer had sprung aloft; the cimeter flew to parry; the Norman's blade turned flatwise, but no mortal arm could have borne up against that stroke. The Christian drove home upon the shoulder, beating in the armor, though he might not pierce. The Moslem's weapon flew from his hand; he staggered, fell upon the walls, while past him and his victor leaped the exulting Franks.
Richard stood erect, but panting, while the brothers Lethalde and Engelbert of Tournai leaped upon the upper battlement, and with them Baldwin du Bourg and Reimbault Creton, mighty cavaliers all. A cry went up that would drown every other din that day of strife, "God wills it!" flung to the bending heavens. The Egyptians upon the walls fought at bay—how vainly! Richard knew the great day had come; the Holy City was won, his arch foe smitten; the journey, the agony, the pouring of the wine of life, had not been vain. God had remembered the toils of His people. Then, as he looked, he saw Sebastian in his white robe, leaping across the bridge. But just as his foot touched the crumbled wall, a chance arrow from some despairing Nubian caught him fairly on the breast. He fell, the white stole fast turning red. Richard caught him in his arms.
"Father," he pleaded, "dearest father, you will not die; see, the victory!"
Sebastian's lips were moving. Richard bent low—a woman's name, "Philippa." "Philippa?" the name of the priest's boy love? Who might say? But at this instant Sebastian started from Richard's arms, and pointed upward. "Look!" and Longsword beheld Godfrey setting the great crucifix from the tower upright upon the battlement of the Holy City. Sebastian's face glowed with an awful smile. He had seen it, Gregory's vision—the Cross triumphant on the walls of Jerusalem.
"Now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace," came the thin voice, "according to Thy word, for mine eyes have seen—" but the rest was heard by the angels about the Throne.
Richard gently lowered the head, stood, and stared about. Already the slaughter was begun on the walls and in the streets. From the Gate of St. Stephen thundered the battle-axes of Tancred and his host, whose strength swelled with the victory. Two thoughts were foremost in Longsword's mind,—"Mary; the Spaniard." He had not seen Musa on the walls. What had befallen? They were crying, "No quarter, slay!" He must act quickly. Suddenly his eye passed from Sebastian to the form of his victim. Holy Mother! the infidel stirred,—he was not dead! The casque was slipping back from the Moslem's face. The wounded man half raised himself, put forth a hand, and pushed away the helmet. Not for ten kingdoms would Richard have looked upon that face; but he could not turn away. And when the casque fell, Longsword beheld the face of Musa, son of Abdallah.
Those passing across the bridge heard a cry of pain that followed them to their dying bed. They saw Richard Longsword uplift Trenchefer with both his arms, and dash it upon the rock. Midway the great blade of the Vikings snapped asunder, and almost with a mortal groan.
"Dear God," called Richard, "is it thus at last the price of Gilbert's blood is paid!"
Then they beheld that man, who had wrestled with fire and death from dawn, cast his own helmet away, snatch the infidel in his arms, soothing and whispering like a woman, while his tears ran freely, as those of a little child.
How the Holy City was sacked by the men of the West; how the infidels paid for unbelief and blasphemy with their own blood; how the blood in the porch of the mosque of Omar plashed up to the bridles of the horses,—these things this book will not tell. For its story is of the deeds of men—not of demons, as their foes cried—nor of avenging angels, as their own hearts boasted. Neither is there need to tell how Zeyneb's life went out under a Frankish sword, nor how Herbert and Theroulde found Mary at the house by the Gate of Herod. It was theirs to save her from death or worse, at the hands of the raging victors, who deemed all in the city Moslem, that night of rapine and sin. Through Saint Stephen's gate they brought her forth, while in Sion, the upper city, the last Egyptians yet stood at bay, and Tancred and Raymond were leading to the final slaughter. Mary said not a word, while the St. Julieners led her through the sack and ruin, and through a thousand scenes at which her pure heart sickened. But when they had passed the wrecked portal, and the hill of Olivet lay before them, clothed in the gold and purple of the evening light, she said softly to Herbert: "And is my dear Lord Richard well?" For though they had said as much at first, yet their looks were so grave she was ill at ease. Then Herbert answered, "Blessed be St. Michael, sweet lady, he is well, though death plucked at him a hundred times." Then Mary asked—half guessing the reply—"And know you anything of his friend, the Spaniard Musa?" But the veteran glanced at Theroulde, and thejongleuranswered: "Dearest mistress, he lies sorely wounded in our baron's tent—grief to tell, though he is Moslem!" Then the Greek bowed her head, and with no more speech they led her to the camp. At the tent door Richard came to meet her, treading softly, and neither spoke when he clasped her to his breast. He led her within where Musa was lying upon a pallet of mantles and saddle-cloths. Mary knelt beside him, touched him. He did not speak or move, though still alive.
"He will die?" she whispered, raising her eyes.
"He will die," answered her husband, very softly. "His armor is not pierced, but all his shoulder has been beaten down. Not all the physicians of his Cordova may heal." Then he took Mary by the hand, and they sat beside the bed. In whispers he told of all that had befallen that day, and learned from her how it befell that Musa wore the armor of Iftikhar. And Mary bowed her head once more, saying it was her own blind folly that sent Musa to his fate. But Richard stroked her tenderly, though his own heart was over full; then made her lie down, promising to waken her if the Spaniard came to himself. So a little past midnight Richard touched her, and she saw that the tent was lighted by lamps brought from the city, and there were silken cushions under Musa's head. The Andalusian was speaking.
"The Star of the Greeks? Is she here?"
"I am here, Musa, dear brother of my husband!" said the lady, at his side. "Speak, and say you will master death as you mastered Iftikhar Eddauleh; that you will forgive this rash disobedience of mine which brought you all this woe!"
Musa's face wore one of its old, soft, melancholy smiles.
"Ah! Rose of Byzantium," said he, half whimsically, "do you think I am so great I can hurl back doom? I grow too proud with the praise. Forgive you? Forgive what—that you loved Richard Longsword, and wished to know it was well with him? No more of that. I forgive, if aught needs forgiving. As for dying, as well to be sped by Trenchefer as by any blade. It was written by Allah upon the canopy of the stars, and Allah does all things well."
"Ah, would God I could die in your stead, my brother, my brother," began Richard, while those terrible tears out of manliest grief would come.
"And the Star of the Greeks, what says she?" began Musa, again smiling. But he checked, when he saw the gust of sorrow sweeping across Mary's face. Then in a darker tone, he added, "No more of this, as you love me; no more, as I love you—love you both." His gaze was not on Richard, but on his wife. And the woman's heart first caught the strange stress of his voice and the light in his dimming eyes.
"Loveme?" her words with a start.
Musa half raised his head from the pillows.
"Why shall I not say it now?" came the reply, almost proudly. "Loved you? I have ever loved you, truly as ever man loved, from the hour I saw your face, and heard your voice, when we plucked you from the Berbers." Then to Richard, "Dear brother, feel in my breast." And the Norman drew forth a soiled and folded bit of scarlet ribbon. "Do you remember, Star of the Greeks, the day you gave me this—when I held the lists against Iftikhar at Palermo? It has been at my lips each night since before I fell asleep. For I have loved you—have loved you—long." The words came very slowly now, for the flood of life was ebbing fast. But the Norman broke out:—
"Dear God, and all these years, my brother, you have not breathed this! I made mockery of your monkish state, and you smiled on, doing all to bring us two together and to give us joy!"
"Assuredly, can the outlaw kite make a nest for the lark? Had I loved her as little as Iftikhar loved her, I would have served brute passion alone; have made my love only of her beauty and her kisses. But I knew while she knelt to your Christ and I to my Allah, we could never love soul with soul. Therefore my joy was this, to see her grow more beautiful as your bride, brother that you are, though not in blood."
"And was it so easy to do all this that I never dreamed it? that I marvelled to myself, 'Why is Musa so devoted, yet so true to Richard, my husband?'" asked Mary, with quivering lips. The breath of the Spaniard was coming still more slowly, but he answered, smiling: "After I had you utterly in my power—after the parting at Antioch—I swore a great oath I would never, save when dying, confess I saw you as other than a sister while Richard lived. It was hard; I was tempted; often the power of Eblees and his jinns was strong. But I fought them away with Allah's might. I have mastered, I have kept my vow. She is yours again, my brother, your own pure wife."
"Holy Mother," cried Mary, in her pain, "had I known this three days since, how would God have tortured me! God knows, while I never had an untrue thought touching Richard,"—and she looked fairly upon her husband,—"yet, Christian or Moslem, had Musa said the word, how would my breast have been torn!"
"Yes, and no shame," the Norman was interrupting, "for what I marvel at is this,—how you and Musa could look upon each other's face one day, and yet keep love for me."
But Musa whispered: "Leave the secret to Allah, Most High. I am near the ending now. You of the West have conquered. You have indeed wrung victory from very doom, your vow is cleared. The next Genoese ship bears you homeward to St. Julien, to the castle and the mountains of fair Auvergne. You will not forget, under that sweet French sky, the Spaniard, whose body lies beneath the dust of that Jerusalem he died to save, though all in vain?"
"Till they chant my death mass—never!" whispered Richard; but Mary made no reply. "It is a long way fromEl Kuds," Musa's pallid lips ran on, "to the orange groves and shining vegas, by the Guadalquiver and the Darro. But the pathway to the throne of Allah can be trodden while an arrow flies. Do not believe the priests, my brother, nor the imams of Islam, who say, 'only Christian,' 'only Moslem,' can meet before the Most High's face. Whether your Christ were Son of the Eternal or earth-sprung prophet, I know not. If to be true Christian is to wear the pure heart of Mary de St. Julien, then in truth the son of Mary the Virgin was the son of the All-Merciful. But this is hid. We shall meet—you, and you, and I—in some blessed spot where the word is 'love,' not 'war.'" His breath failed him; Mary took his head upon her lap and stroked his temples with her soft, white hands. Richard did not speak. Presently the Spaniard spoke again, a whisper, as of the far retreating wind:—
"Yes, I have been faithful to my love,—my brother,—my promise."
Mary glanced toward Richard, and he nodded gently. She bent over Musa and kissed him twice upon the lips. A smile broke upon the Spaniard's face. There came a faint sigh and a folding of the hands, as if to rest. Mary raised her head.
"He is not here," she whispered; and Richard answered softly, "Sweet wife, that was the fairest deed of all your life."
Just as the dawn was glowing, Richard stood before his tent on Olivet, and at his side Mary de St. Julien, his wife. It was very still, peaceful as a summer Sabbath of La Haye in far Provence. They clasped hands as they listened to a distant chant and singing. The priests were raising the matin hymn from the rock of Sion, where infidel muezzins had called on the single Allah for so many sinful years. They saw the east change from crimson to red fire, the redness brighten to golden flame; then all the ridge of Moab glowed in light, as on that morning when the host first stood before Jerusalem. The last mists crept from the hills—thin blue clouds that faded away in the burning azure. And last of all the sun mounted upward slowly, his glory trailing far, as though reluctant for his daily race. They saw coming from the city a company of priests, white-stoled, and bearing in their midst a bier, Sebastian going to that rest which shall know waking only at God's last trumpet.
"Let us pray," said Mary, gently, "for the souls of all the brave men and true who have died. Let us pray for the soul of Musa."
So they knelt, while the chant of the priests drew ever nearer. When they rose, the disk of fire had leaped above the topmost peak, and was touching each dome, each battlement, of the Holy City with living light. They saw the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, the Rock of Calvary. The slow breeze crept through the scattered olive trees that crowned the Mount of the Agony. It was silent,—for a moment the priests had ceased chanting, and the sun went on his upward way, shedding over Mary's face an aureole as of gold. Richard put his arm about his wife, and looked deep into her eyes. And in those eyes he saw a strength, a love, a sweetness, not there that first hour they sped madness through his frame, when he curbed in Rollo with half-boyish might.
"Mary," said he, softly, in his Norman French, "my own true lady wife, it is five years since we first looked on each other—long years. But there are many left, please God. Will you go back to France with me, that by your aid and prayers I may prove a just lord to the lands of St. Julien?"
"I will go to the earth's ends with you, dear lord and husband," said she; and she also spoke in French. Then she pressed him closer. "Ah, sweet life, the night is sped; the sun fast rises. All the past is gone—Musa, Sebastian, Iftikhar, Morgiana,—and we—we only—are left to each other. I will forget I was born a Greek. I will speak your own sweet French, and be your loving wife; and we shall grow old together, ever loving one another, and the dear God more. And Musa—" but Richard had his word:—
"We will bear his name upon our hearts; and if so be I am suffered to stand before the throne of light, there will my brother be also. For on the earth there did not tread a soul more loved by God"—he hesitated—"and the Lord Christ, than he."
Then he kissed Mary once more, holding her head back in his strong arms, that the brightness might transfigure all her beauty. The procession of priests was very near, its leader, Raymond of Agiles. The two knelt once more, that they might receive the good priests' blessing and proffer new prayers for the sainted dead. And while they knelt, the company burst forth into singing, until the rock of Olivet gave back the sound:—
"Laud and honor to the Father!Laud and honor to the Son!Laud and honor to the Spirit!Ever Three and ever One;Con-substantial, co-eternal,While unending ages run!"
A FRIEND OF CAESAR
A TALE OF THE FALL OF THE ROMAN REPUBLIC
By WILLIAM STEARNS DAVIS
12mo. Cloth. $1.50
"As a story ... there can be no question of its success ... while the beautiful love of Cornelia and Drusus lies at the sound sweet heart of the story, to say so is to give a most meagre idea of the large sustained interest of the whole.... There are many incidents so vivid, so brilliant, that they fix themselves in the memory."—Nancy Huston BanksinThe Bookman.
"As a story ... there can be no question of its success ... while the beautiful love of Cornelia and Drusus lies at the sound sweet heart of the story, to say so is to give a most meagre idea of the large sustained interest of the whole.... There are many incidents so vivid, so brilliant, that they fix themselves in the memory."—Nancy Huston BanksinThe Bookman.
"Full of beautiful pictures and noble characters."—The Public Ledger, Phila."Mr. Davis has done his work with a seriousness and dignity that indicate remarkable maturity of mind and of purpose. The plot of his story is stirring, as a portrayal of the times when Julius Cæsar was rising into power could hardly fail to make it; but the characters have not been allowed to degenerate into mere puppets for carrying on the vigorous action. The author's conception of well-known historical characters is extremely interesting. It is no less delightful than surprising to be given a glimpse of the good side of the many-sided Cleopatra. The greatest praise that is due to Mr. Davis, however, is for his skilful management of the historical setting of his book. He is evidently at home in the times of which he writes. Every detail is characteristic, yet his story is not forced to yield place to dissertations upon Roman history and antiquities. He has succeeded in a remarkable degree in making that ancient world live, and in bringing it into close, vital relations with our own times."—Smith College Monthly.
"Full of beautiful pictures and noble characters."
—The Public Ledger, Phila.
"Mr. Davis has done his work with a seriousness and dignity that indicate remarkable maturity of mind and of purpose. The plot of his story is stirring, as a portrayal of the times when Julius Cæsar was rising into power could hardly fail to make it; but the characters have not been allowed to degenerate into mere puppets for carrying on the vigorous action. The author's conception of well-known historical characters is extremely interesting. It is no less delightful than surprising to be given a glimpse of the good side of the many-sided Cleopatra. The greatest praise that is due to Mr. Davis, however, is for his skilful management of the historical setting of his book. He is evidently at home in the times of which he writes. Every detail is characteristic, yet his story is not forced to yield place to dissertations upon Roman history and antiquities. He has succeeded in a remarkable degree in making that ancient world live, and in bringing it into close, vital relations with our own times."—Smith College Monthly.
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK
Transcriber's note:Variations in spelling, punctuation and hyphenation have been retained except in obvious cases of typographical error.
Transcriber's note:
Variations in spelling, punctuation and hyphenation have been retained except in obvious cases of typographical error.