[1]Arab name: Tāwulah.
[1]Arab name: Tāwulah.
Richard and Mary made the toilsome journey across Lombardy and Dalmatia with trials enough to expiate many sins, before Count Raymond's host reached Constantinople. There also Emperor Alexius gave the Crusaders chill greeting, and earned many curses. Yet when Richard saw the riches of the "City guarded of God," and heard how the first hordes, led by Peter the Hermit and Walter Lackpenny, had lighted like locusts on its suburbs, and had sacked palace and church as though despoiling very infidels, Longsword did not marvel that Alexius thought needful to deal warily with later comers. Here for the first time he learned the fate of the first peasant hordes,—how, to save his city from ruin, Alexius had ferried them across the Bosphorus. Left then to the Turks' tender mercies, the Sultan of Nicæa had pounced upon them with his light cavalry and cut them short in their sins. Peter the Hermit had escaped to Constantinople; his followers had perished almost to a man; and so began the great outpouring of life-blood in the long agony of the Crusade.
Small wonder Alexius Comnenus saw in his later guests doubtful friends or worse! Or that with all his matchless guile he sought pledges from them, that their coming might bring blessing rather than destruction to his empire; for the blunt Franks openly swore that the schismatic Greeks were but one degree better than Moslems. So day followed day of intrigue and lie-giving; the Augustus bickering and haggling with Raymond, Godfrey, and the other Latin chiefs. In the meantime Richard had time to learn the marvels of this great city of the Cæsars. What city like it! Palermo had not one tithe its wealth. Its walls might mock all the chivalry of France. Where in the West was one building so notable as were a score along the Mesa, the great street from the "Golden Gate" to the "Sacred Palace"? Everywhere Corinthian columns, veined marbles, bronzes that nigh seemed breathing, palaces, churches a hundred and more; greatforawhere swelled a mighty traffic; merchants whose shops boasted the luxurious wares of Persia, China, Ind; and multitudes on every street—Greek, Bulgar, Russian, Armenian, Jew. To Richard the scene was for long an enchanted confusion; and he marvelled to see how to Mary the pomp and bustle alike came as the common course of life. When he rode at her side through the humming city, or felt the light bark spring under the oar, as they shot up the Golden Horn or toward Chrysopolis, he was fain to question how any one here born and bred could find joy in coarser, wilder Frankland.
Together the two had been in St. Sophia, monarch of churches, had seen the great dome swimming on its sea of light above its forty windows; had heard the choir sing as angels the praise of "Mary, God-bearer, Giver of Victory." And Richard's soul had been almost carried aloft by the throb of the stately service. Again in the street, he said: "Dear life, I feel as if I were but just plucked down from heaven. What have I done that you love me so; that you can so cheerfully leave all this, and dwell with me in our rude, bare West?" And Mary, as she rode beside him, answered, smiling: "Why? And can one live forever in the great church, and eat and drink music? Is all life a rowing from Chalcedon to Prinkipo? Ah, Richard, could I be happy to spend my days after the manner of these ladies of Constantinople,—watched like cats by sleek eunuchs, and kept close that our masters may stroke us? Is it better to listen to the music of St. Sophia and to read Sophocles and Herodotus; or to ride, hawk on fist, over the merry country with you at my side, to feel the wild wind tossing my hair, to sniff the breeze in the free woods, and think how sweet a thing is life?"
"Then you are true Frank at heart!" laughed her husband, "despite your Greek name and learning."
"I am the wife of Richard de St. Julien," answered she, very seriously; "and he is a mighty baron of France."
So they viewed the great city through each other's eyes, and Richard grew humble as he saw how much wit heaven had granted those Greeks he once despised. At last the negotiating ended; the Emperor came down from his dignity; the princes swore him a loose manner of fealty; Bohemond of Tarentum, the most covetous of the chiefs, abated his demands. On a day never to be forgotten, the imperial galleys bore the host across the narrow strait. "Asia!" the cry of each knight as he kissed the very soil; at last they were fairly set to go to Jerusalem!
And now the all-reigning desire was to slay infidels. Not many leagues away lay a great paynim stronghold, Nicæa, capital of Kilidge Arslan, sultan of Roum,—with fighting promised of a right knightly kind. Merry the music, and merrier the hearts of the hundred thousands, that May season, as the host swept in flashing steel and unsoiled bleaunts past old Nicomedia under the blue Bithynian sky, the hills all bright and green in springtime glory.
"Sure, Our Lord is with us!" cried Richard. "I feel a giant's strength!" But Sebastian plodded on with bowed head. "Boast not," was the reply; "for our sins we all may yet be sorely chastened."
"But is not God on our side, father?"
"Yes, truly; but it shall be even as with the band of Gideon. Of thirty and two thousand there were left to fall on the Midianites three hundred; and to be among these, may we be worthy!"
At this Richard laughed, looking off to the long lines of bright hauberks and forests of lances, far as the eye could reach; yet he had not laughed, had he known that of the six hundred thousand of fighting-men that crossed into Asia, scarce fifty thousand were to see with mortal eye the Holy City. But for the moment the skies seemed very bright, and the shadows commenced creeping only when forth from the forest stole ragged wretches, nigh starving, refugees from Peter the Hermit's rout. These told how Kilidge Arslan had slaughtered man, woman, and child, when he stormed the camp of Walter Lackpenny. Then, when the host advanced a little farther, they came to a wide heap of bones, more than could be counted, bleaching in the sun, and the crows still a black cloud above; for here had been the first battle and the first defeat. Loud rose the oaths and threats of vengeance from peasant and baron; the lines advanced in closer array, the music lessened, every lance was ready; for now at last they were treading on the soil of the infidel.
Richard Longsword rode with the three thousand pioneers that Duke Godfrey sent ahead to plant crosses by the wayside as guides to the hosts who came after. Thus it befell, the saints granted that he should be among the first knights to set eyes on the unbelievers. With Prince Tancred, Bohemond's valiant nephew,—who had not forgotten the lists at Palermo,—Richard saw a band of horsemen whizzing ahead, and, lo, as the Christian riders drew near, the Turks' little crooked bows began spitting out barbed arrows, which glanced harmlessly on the chain mail, but now and then wounded a horse. "Rash infidels,—singled out doubtless by Satan for destruction,"—so Prince Tancred cried when he couched his lance; and away went the whole squadron of knights. The Seljouks wheeled like lightning, and were off; their bony Tartar horses flew madly under the spur, while the men, bending dexterously in their saddles, launched their shafts. But destruction was upon them; the Christians rode them down one after another; some were lanced, some taken; a few escaped, howling in a truly devilish fashion, to tell the tale to their fellow-unbelievers. It had been so easy for the cavaliers, that they rallied one another on the prowess of the day.
"Ha! De St. Julien," Tancred would cry,—"how many paladins have you slain?" And Richard would answer, "As many as you, fair lord; but who is this grand soldan you have strapped to your stirrup? Will he fetch a thousand byzants' ransom?"
They brought the luckless prisoners into camp, and scarce knew what to do with them. Shock-headed, small-eyed fellows they were,—all bones, teeth, and sinew. None could speak their language. Raymond of Agiles, worthy chaplain, stood before them with a crucifix, and discoursed an hour long in Latin on the perilous state of their souls, hoping that some word of the truth might lodge in their hearts through a miracle of grace. But the wretches only blinked out of their little eyes, and never moved a muscle nor gave a sign on their stolid faces. Theroulde advised that, following Charlemagne's precept, they should be put to death.
"None of the Moslems did remainBut had turned Christian, or else was slain!"
"None of the Moslems did remainBut had turned Christian, or else was slain!"
prattled he, jauntily; but Sebastian counselled that due time for repentance should not be denied them. "Let them be as the men of Gibeon," he recommended, "hewers of wood and drawers of water." So the poor Turks were suffered to live, and Mary Kurkuas sent one of her maids to the tent where they lay bound, with cordials for such as were wounded. Many good Christians frowned at this, and Count Pons of Balazan hinted to Richard he would do well to rebuke his wife; "it was not seemly to have pity on God's enemies." But Richard belched out a great oath. "By St. Michael, who saveth from peril, he who bids me rebuke the Baroness de St. Julien shall walk up the length of Trenchefer!" and Count Pons, who was a discreet man, had to plead no desire for a quarrel, remembering the fate of the Valmonts.
Thus tamely the Holy War began; but on the sixth of May the army found itself under the walls of Nicæa—an infidel city now, but forever sacred to Christians, since here had been framed the great Creed. The knights laughed at sight of its lofty battlements, as promising doughty fighting, and sat down for the siege, awaiting the coming of Raymond from Constantinople. While the siege-engines made the firm rock quake with the attack, Richard and the other barons rode forth into the country seeking adventure; for Kilidge Arslan was sending down his light riders from the hills, and there was steady skirmishing. Each morning as Richard went abroad he looked back at the face of Mary—the lips smiling, but not the eyes; and each evening when Rollo lumbered wearily homeward—perhaps with his lord's target battered deeply—there would be laughter, kisses, and merry talk, as they sat before the camp-fire, saw the red flames weaving pictures, and Longsword told of the brave deeds of the day.
So sped two weeks around Nicæa, and on a Friday Richard sallied forth in company with Bohemond and Tancred, who led the scouting party. As their troops climbed the foothills that lay south of the city, the eagle eyes of Tancred lit upon three men who were stealing from grove to grove, as if wishing anything rather than to be seen. Then there was a headlong race among the knights to see which would strike first, and Rollo tossed out his great hoofs and led them all. Thus Richard caught the three just as they were plunging in a thicket, and bade them stand and yield. One indeed made a bold break for freedom, but just as he dashed among the trees, Tancred's javelin smote him, and his fellows held up their hands and howled for quarter. When the two were fairly on the way back to camp Richard observed that one was a Seljouk, but the other—a brown, black-eyed, wiry-limbed fellow—cried out in Arabic when addressed: "Ah, Christ be praised! I am amongst Christians; mercy, kind lord, on a fellow-believer,—release these bands!" "Christian?" protested Richard, still holding the cord knotted round the prisoner's hands.
"I call Our Lord to witness," exclaimed the captive, "I am a baptized Christian of Syria, and have endured captivity and persecution for the sake of the Gospel;" and at this he cast down his eyes and began to sigh.
"Our Lady pity you!" cried all the knights, touched to the quick instantly; "and how came you with these two infidels?"
"Ah! noble lords," declared the Arab, a great tear on each cheek, "I have been long captive among the unbelievers, the slave of Kilidge Arslan. Know that on Sunday the Sultan will fall upon you with all his host, and we three are messengers sent to bear the tidings into the city through your lines."
"Fellow! fellow!" began Tancred, pricking up his ears, "a Christian, and yet the private messenger of the infidels?"
"Yes, Cid," was the ready answer, "I have, alas!"—another great sigh—"been false to my faith and apostatized; yet I said in my heart, 'Let me go with these messengers, and by betraying them to the Franks, undo my own sin and gain liberty among Christian people.'"
"By St. Theodore," swore Tancred, "you speak smoothly; if it is as you say, you shall not go unrewarded, and Bishop Adhemar shall give you full absolution."
"Even so, Cid," replied the Arab, whose hands Richard had set at liberty, but who made no effort to fly. "Put to torture this Turk, my companion; he will confess all that I have told."
"You are a stout-limbed varlet," commented Bohemond, the sly-eyed Prince of Tarentum; "you shall serve with me in my suite as guide and interpreter, for language and country you must know well." But the Arab only bowed, and answered:—
"My lord is a fountain of generosity, yet it is my desire to seek service with the husband of that very noble lady the Princess Mary Kurkuas, who it is told is the great emir, Richard Longsword."
"St. Michael," burst out Richard, "I am he! Yet why do you call my wife by name?"
The stranger salaamed almost to the dust.
"God is gracious beyond my sins in granting so noble a lord as husband of the daughter of my dear master. Know that fifteen years past, before the Moslems took Antioch, I was house-servant to Manuel Kurkuas, 'domestic' of Syria. Oftentimes have I held the very august princess on my knee, and even in her childhood all declared she was of beauty passing St. Thecla."
Richard had only to hear one praise Mary Kurkuas to become that man's friend straightway. And he put his hand on the hilt of Trenchefer, taking oath upon the relics that if the stranger, who called himself Hossein, told an honest tale, he should never lack a patron. Only Tancred, viewing the Arab with his sea-green eyes, was heard to remark, "This fellow invokes the saints glibly, but his faith has more profession in it than is to my liking."
However, when they brought the two before Duke Godfrey and threatened the Turk with torture, he broke down and told the interpreter a tale exactly like Hossein's—that Kilidge Arslan waited in the mountains with a great host and would fall on the besiegers the next day. So the Arab's credit was high when Richard brought him to the tent of his wife. Hossein cast one glance upon her, and fell upon his knees, kissing her robe and crying:—
"Praises, praises to St. John of Damascus! I behold the daughter of my beloved lord Manuel, and God has verily clothed her as an angel of light!"
"Good man," said the Greek, a little confused, "I know you not. When have you served my father?"
"O preëminently august lady!" broke forth the Arab again. "Do you not remember Hossein, who was in the Cæsar Manuel's palace at Antioch? How he told you the tales of his people and sang you the wondrous song of Antar, and the stories of the jinns and the spirits of the air?"
"I was indeed in Antioch when my father ruled the city, but I was very young. I recall nothing," replied Mary.
"Alas! I had hopes your memory had not failed," declared Hossein, still kneeling; "yet it is true, O noblest of the Greeks, you were very young. Enough; my devotion can repay the daughter what I owe to the father. For the most excellent Cæsar saved me from cruel death at the hands of the infidels, my fellow-countrymen."
"You are an honorable man," said the lady, touched at his demonstration, "to discharge a debt incurred so long ago. Perhaps"—and she ran over all her early girlhood in her memory—"I recall something of you, yet my father had many servants. I crave pardon if I forget. And how have you fared all this while among the Turks?"
Whereupon Hossein flew into the most pitiful tale as to his life of captivity and persecution, so that the lady's eyes grew wet, and her heart right sore.
"Good Christian," said she, at last, "surely you have endured much for your faith. God grant that under like persecution I do not apostatize more deeply. And what may I do for you? Have you home, friends, kin?"
"Alas! most august princess, Heaven has taken all away. Let me be your slave, your bodyguard, and sleep without your tent by night with a naked sword. Perilous times await, and"—here he choked in his speech—"the foe shall only touch you by stepping across my poor body!"
"You are a noble and pious man," said Mary, smiling. "It shall be as you say. I will ask the Baron to make you my guardsman." Whereupon Hossein invoked all the saints of the calendar to witness his delight; and the princess had her varlets and maids clothe and feed him. When Herbert and Theroulde came to look at him, however, they wagged their heads; and Sylvana, the nurse, who went wherever her mistress went, came boldly to Mary, saying:—
"Save for his pious talk, we all swear this man is infidel. I knew all your father's servants at Antioch, and he was not of them."
But Mary answered her sharply:—
"Must one have a white skin to love Our Lord? No man could come before me with such a lie. Your memory fails you. The Cæsar had a great household. Besides, this Hossein has just revealed all the plots of Kilidge Arslan, and my husband says he is to be trusted." The word of Richard Longsword was not to be contradicted before his wife, as Sylvana knew well; so she held her peace. Only Theroulde arranged with Herbert that one of them should always watch their lady's tent along with the suspected Hossein.
But the Arab's revelations proved true to the letter. On the next day, while Raymond of Toulouse with the rear of the Provençals was making his way to camp, three huge bands of Seljouk cavalry swooped down on them and on the forces of Duke Godfrey. Then followed a battle of the true knightly sort, the Turks trying what they became too wise to attempt again,—to ride down the Franks in fair onset, with sheer weight of numbers. Long and fierce the struggle; every Christian chief proved a paladin. Generalship there was not; every baron and his knights fought his own little battle with the hordesmen confronting. Then in the end the surviving Seljouks were driven from the field like smoke; the heads of their fallen comrades slung into Nicæa by the engines, forewarning of what awaited the garrison. There were masses for the Christian dead, the first martyrs;Te Deumsfor the victory. Richard Longsword, men cried, had slain as many infidels as Duke Godfrey's self. When he stood in his bloody hauberk before Mary that night, she cast her arms about him and kissed him, saying: "O sweet lord, how beautiful you must be in battle! How God must rejoice in your holy service!"
"Dear life," answered Longsword, pressing her to his mailed breast, "it is when I think of the pure saint on earth who is praying for me that my arm grows strong."
"Then it must be very strong, Richard," said she, with half a laugh, half a sob, "for I love you more than words may tell; and my prayers are many and all for you."
So they were glad that evening,—at least all who had not lost a friend. But when Mary had gone to rest, Herbert talked gravely with Richard.
"Little lord," said he, affectionately, "put no trust in this Hossein. The saints are on his tongue, yet he stumbled when Sebastian tried to make him say the Creed, even in his own Arabic; and Theroulde swears that to-night when he thought none watched, he knelt toward Mecca in Moslem fashion, as if to pray, and muttered the incantations of their Al-Koran."
Richard laughed. "Theroulde smells danger at all times; and Sebastian thinks, to speak Arabic is to squint toward perdition. Hossein has revealed a secret which has given the infidels the mightiest stroke that was theirs since Charlemagne marched to Spain. And yet you accuse him of being one of them? Have shame for your suspicions on a persecuted fellow-Christian! Treat him as a brother, and pray that your own souls be in no greater peril than his."
"Nevertheless—" began Herbert.
"I hear no more," replied his master, abruptly; "I must go to rest. A cursed story told by Count Renard'sjongleurruns in my head;—how Robert the Norman and his father, King William, once fought hand to hand, helmets closed, and Robert nigh killed his father ere they knew one another. St. Michael, what if Musa and I should meet thus! But I must sleep."
Herbert grumbled long to himself, and Theroulde and he renewed their vow never to leave Hossein a moment alone to work his own devices.
The host lay before Nicæa many a weary day before the starved and despairing garrison declared for Emperor Alexius and the Franks saw the Greek standards floating from the battlements. Loud was the rage against this trick that robbed them of the plunder of so fair a city. "Back to Constantinople!" howled the men-at-arms and petty nobles. "The Greeks are schismatics and scarce better than Moslem!" But the judicious presents of Alexius silenced the cries of the chiefs, and they in turn controlled their people, though from that hour little love was wasted on the Emperor. On the twenty-fifth day of June the Army of the Cross struck its tents about Nicæa, and set out for the march across Phrygia, through the heart of the dominions of Kilidge Arslan.
Soon after starting the host divided; for water and forage would be none too plentiful, the guides said, in the plains and mountains before, and to keep together might mean ruin. So Duke Godfrey led away the larger half of the army with Raymond, Adhemar, and Hugh the Great; while the second corps followed Bohemond, Tancred, and Robert of Normandy. Being himself Norman, Longsword went with this last division, although he would gladly have kept company with the Duke of Bouillon. He was ill pleased to see with how little order each host marched, and how scant was the effort to keep close enough each to the other for help in case of need. Still, for a day or two, all went well. They passed through a pleasant rolling country, with abundant grass and water. All the villages, to be sure, had been burned by the Turks, and scarce a peasant met them. But around them like an invisible net the Sultan's light-horsemen hovered, and now and then the long line of baggage mules and plodding infantry would be attacked, a few beasts hamstrung, a few footmen wounded, before the knights could charge out and chase the Seljouks over the hills. On the third day, however, the attacks grew more violent. Longsword had been sent back by Bohemond to cover the trailing rear-guard, where were the staggering sick, the defencelessjongleurs, and the women in heavy carriages. As the afternoon advanced, he sent a message to the Count of Chartres that unless he had speedy succor his St. Julien men could not hold back the thickening squadrons; and quick as the reënforcements came, there was a sturdymêlée—lance to lance, sword to cimeter—before the Turks broke. When at last they were flying, Richard pushed the sure-footed Rollo up a hill where any horse saving he would have stumbled; and behold, from the hilltop Longsword could see a score of heavy dust clouds rising, north, south, east, west,—cavalry galloping. When he rode down he met Tancred himself.
"Fair lord," was his report, "the infidels surely plan to attack us in force to-morrow. If my eyes are good, there are thousands of Turkish horse around us. Kilidge Arslan must have called round him all his easternmost hordes, and intends battle. I advise that before nightfall a strong escort be sent to Duke Godfrey, bidding him hasten to our relief."
"By the Mass!" swore Tancred, his knightly honor touched. "Of all men, you, De St. Julien, should be the last to cry 'Rescue!' We are well able to scatter Kilidge Arslan's thousands, and Godfrey shall rob us of no glory."
So Richard held his peace, though for some strange reason his heart was not as gay as it should have been when about to engage in glorious battle with the infidel. He accompanied the rear as it toiled into the encampment, already plotted by the van. Longsword saw with anxiety that, though the camp was protected in the rear by a reedy marsh, and on one side by a shallow stream, no palisades were being raised, nor any other defences. The weary men set their tents as they might, lighted fires, feasted, and were asleep, heavy with the toilsome march. Mary Kurkuas stood at the tent door as was her wont, and greeted her husband.
"You ran more than your share of peril to-day. The fighting was hard. Ah! I was frightened."
"Ai!" cried Richard, taking off his heavy helm, "if I never come nearer death than to-day, like a stork I shall live to be a thousand. But there is a bandage on your wrist—what? blood?" and his face grew troubled.
"Yes," answered Mary, smiling now, and holding up the wrist. "While you were so valiantly guarding the rear, a squadron of Turks flew out of a defile just before us, and ere Prince Bohemond could ride up with his knights, had charged very close, shooting arrows."
"Mother of Mercies, you were in danger! But were you frightened?"
"Not till it was all past. For Hossein sprang in front of me, at his own peril, and covered me with his target, catching three shafts upon it otherwise meant for me. Then the Prince flew up with his band and chased the Turks away; and I found that my wrist was bleeding where a barb had scratched."
"Ha, Herbert!" cried his master, "will not my lady make a noble cavalier? She wins honorable wounds; she shall have lance and hauberk, and ride beside me. As for Hossein, what do you say? Be he Moslem or Christian, he has shielded your mistress at risk of life." The man-at-arms scratched the thin hairs on his crown.
"True; perchance I have wronged him. Yet yesterday we could not persuade him to taste a bit of pork, and he has that cast of eye which 'wise women' call malignant."
"You are all suspicions and jealousy," declared Mary, pouting. "Did I let you, I believe you would clap Hossein in fetters."
"I would I saw them on his wrists!" muttered the veteran, as he went away to his supper. But Richard and Mary sat a long time before their tent, sipping the spiced wine of Lesbos they had brought from Constantinople, and watching the stars peep out one by one from the deepening sky. The camp buzzed all about, yet dimly, as if each man was in love with quiet. It was very warm, and the soft wind bore the scent of drying wild-flowers and parching heather, as it crept down from the sun-loved uplands. It was a sweet and peaceful hour, one which stayed as a pure and holy vision in both their minds for many a long, sad day.
"Sweetheart," said Richard, when they grew tired of counting the budding stars, "though Prince Tancred and the rest will not hear it, there will be a mighty battle to-morrow. I have seen Kilidge Arslan's hosts all around us. We shall fight in the morning as never at Nicæa."
"Ah! Richard," answered Mary, still in laughing mood, "you must let me ride with you. See!"—and she caught the dagger from his belt—"can I not strike as manfully as any dapper little squire, and make the infidels flee before me, as ever did your Frank hero, great Roland?"
"Verily," cried her husband, his eyes on her face, "I think if the Moslems saw you coming, they would drop every man his sword,—your darts would pierce them."
"My darts?" asked she.
"Yes, truly,—these," and he laid his fingers on her eyes.
"No," was the answer, and she shook him off. "Listen: my eyes are my sorrow,—first, because they captured the Baron de St. Julien, who deserves no such bondage;" then, more gravely, "next, because they nigh undid Louis de Valmont; and last—O Richard! still I have mighty fear of Iftikhar Eddauleh; he is seeking your life, and God knows whether his unholy passion for me is still in his heart! Swear, swear to me, Richard, that rather with your own hands you will take my life than suffer me to fall intothatman's power. He is Moslem, but on that account I do not hate him; yet death were better than to be his bride!"
Richard was accustomed to these changing flashes of gay and grave; but he knew there was no common ring of entreaty in Mary's last words, and he answered very soberly:—
"Heart of my heart, I am here in all my strength, with Trenchefer at my side, and around are thousands of good Christian knights. When they are all slain, and I also, then you may fear Iftikhar Eddauleh. Till then, think of likelier things to dread."
Mary was silent, watching the stars for a moment, then replied:—
"You say well, Richard, you are very strong. I am proud of you. Yet I have a strange fear that all your strength cannot shield me from Iftikhar. But no more of my folly,—perchance I am moonstruck. Let me go to the tent, to say one prayer to the Holy Mother to keep you safe to-morrow, and then to sleep, to dream how happy we shall be when we go back to France."
So he kissed her; and when the flaps of the tent had closed behind her and her maids, he called Hossein.
"Good fellow, to-morrow we expect battle. To-day you have been a gallant guard of the princess. Remain by her to-morrow; defend her with your life. As I live, if you do your duty, reward shall not fail."
"Cid," answered the Arab, kissing the Baron's feet, "I hear and obey. I swear, on my head, no unfriendly hand shall touch your very noble wife."
As Richard looked about, he saw Theroulde standing in the firelight. "And you, too, Sir Minstrel," said he, "shall stand guard with Hossein over your lady." As he spoke, he thought he heard a low curse, "Eblees confound him!" burst from under Hossein's breath. "Ha! What said you, Arab?" asked Longsword.
"I was but sighing as I thought of my many sins, Cid," answered the fellow, very dutifully.
Richard did not reply, but repeated to himself ere he fell asleep: "It is as well Theroulde will be with Mary. Despite everything, I mislike this Hossein, for some reason."
Richard slept heavily, and was awakened by a hand on the shoulder. It was the St. Julien knight, De Carnac, who commanded the watch of his baron's command.
"Up, fair lord!" the warrior was urging, "the Seljouks are closing round. Our sentinels are being driven in. I am bidden summon you to council with the Prince of Tarentum." And with this Richard staggered to his feet and stared around. It was very dark in the tent as he put on hauberk and helmet. Without there was hum of many voices, distant shouting, baggage cattle chafing and clinking their chains, and presently a clear French war-cry, doubly piercing in the night, "Montjoye Saint Denis!" A moment later a trumpet blared out, then another and another.
Richard stepped from the tent; the sky was graying in the east; encampment—men, horses, all—were vague black shadows just visible. He was buckling fast Trenchefer when the flaps of the next tent parted, and forth came a figure—his wife. In the dim twilight he could only see the whiteness of her bare throat and the soft, unbound hair, waving on forehead and shoulders. She came to him, and embraced him without a word. Then at last she said, "Now, dear life, you must ride out and fight God's battle, and if I cannot gallop at your side, you shall know that my heart and my prayers ride with you; and you must be very brave and very strong, and I will wait here and be brave also."
"Ah! beautiful," answered he, before he swung into the saddle of the waiting Rollo, "God will have pity on me for your dear sake. You know no words can tell you all I feel."
"Our Lord be with you!" and with that word upon her lips she kissed him; and he mounted, took lance, and rode away, with all the St. Julien men saving a few grooms, also Theroulde and Hossein, who were to remain by the tents.
With the breath of the last kiss on his lips, and his head held very high, Richard Longsword led his troop out of the gray maze of the encampment. Battle was before him—a great battle against countless infidels, such as he and his peers had often made merry to think of; yet Longsword felt no joy that morning. Fear for himself he had none; the battle might sweep over him, the war-horns blow his funeral mass—what matter? Yet in a way his heart was sad. It would have been better had Mary remained at La Haye; better were he to fight for himself and the cause of Christ alone. But he knew not why he should grieve. That the Seljouks should so prevail over the soldiers of the Cross as to menace the encampment, scarce entered his head. Only he had been happier, could he have recalled his command to Hossein, taken the Arab in his troops, left another to guard the lady. But the fellow had twice proved his devotion. Why mistrust? And all such thoughts sped from his mind when he saw, dimly ahead, armed cavaliers sitting on their talldestrers, and Prince Bohemond's voice called:—
"Who rides? De St. Julien?"
"The same, my lord prince; what news?"
"Praise St. Michael, you are here! We need all our wits. The infidels are closing round, and dark as it is we can hear the hoof-beats of tens of thousands. We must prepare for battle with the dawn."
"And have you taken my advice, my Lord Tancred," asked Richard, "and sent messengers to the Duke?"
"Two knights and ten men-at-arms have ridden an hour since," replied Tancred, for he was among the horsemen. "Yet I would vow Our Lady two gold candlesticks, were I sure they could get through the hordes. You may mock me, De St. Julien, if you will, for not heeding your warning last evening."
"Mockery is of little profit this morning, my lord," said Richard, soberly; "how may I serve you?"
But at this moment came another cavalier, in armor that gleamed in the wan light, and behind him a great train.
"Hail, fair Duke Robert!" cried Bohemond; "what news do your outposts bring you?"
The son of William the Conqueror swore a deep Norman oath, and replied: "In my quarter arrows pelt like hailstones; all the fiends are broke loose. They only wait the light to strike us. God grant we are all well shriven, for we may sleep with the saints ere another morning!"
"Fair lords," said Tancred, "we must go to our posts and array the battle. De St. Julien, bid the varlets and footmen place the baggage wagons round the camp, to make what barricade they may. After that, put your men at my right, for by the Virgin, we shall see stout fighting!"
So the council broke up, there being nothing to advise save to fight heartily. Richard sent the heralds through the camp and, with cry and trumpet, roused the sleeping host, though the alarms of the night already had waked many. A great confusion there was: a thousand voices shouting at once, women wailing, war-horns blaring, wheels creaking, all trebly loud in the murk of the breaking day. Long before the wagon barrier, also, was as it should be, a great cry began to swell: "The foe! the foe!" and the infantry commenced to bang their shields and clatter their pike-staffs, for discipline was none the best. Richard rode away with his hundred St. Julien troopers,—men that he could trust to the last pinch,—and drew them up beside the personal command of Prince Tancred. Prince Bohemond and the Norman Duke had arrayed their mailed cavalry in a solid rank, the line stretching far down the plain, every man in complete armor, with a good horse between his knees. As the light strengthened, Richard could see the long files of lances, ten thousand bright pennons whipping the wind, and the new sun shone on as many burnished casques and flashing targets—noble sight; yet not so strange as that which he beheld when he looked northward just east of the little town called Dorylæum. The hills, so far as eye could reach, were covered with an innumerable host, thousands on thousands, and all on horseback. He could see the gay red and green turbans, the bright scarfs and mantles, pennons, banners—past counting; and even as the sun lifted above the hills, and sent its weird red light over the valley, a mighty roar of tambour, kettledrum, and cymbal came rolling from the foe, and a shout from myriad throats, wild, beastlike, shrill as the winter wind. With the shout, as if at magician's wand, all the hills seemed moving; and the Seljouk hordes charged straight upon the Christian lines.
It was a wondrous spectacle; far as the eye might pierce, only horsemen, and more horsemen, speeding at headlong gallop. "Christ pity us!" more than one bronze-faced cavalier muttered in his beard. And some cried, "Charge!" But Tancred held them steady. The hordes swept on as one man, nearer, so near that the dust-cloud blew in the Christians' faces; and all braced themselves for the shock. But just as the crash was about to tremble on the air, lo! the foremost Turks had wheeled like lightning, and arrows flew out that darkened the sky by their number. And as the first horde rolled off to one flank, still shooting, the next, the next, and yet another whirled past, pouring forth their volleys.
"Stand fast, Christians!" was Tancred's shout, as the first shafts dashed harmlessly on the good mail; and for a moment the Franks sat, their steeds immovable, and let the blast of steel beat on them. Yet only for a moment; though but one arrow in a hundred struck home, here and there men were bleeding, wounded horses plunging. Each instant Crusaders were falling; should they sit forever and be shot to death? Duke Robert was the first to charge. "Dex aiè!" cried his Norman knights, and lance in rest they spurred straight in the face of the wheeling myriads. Vain courage! A few Seljouks they struck and rode over in a twinkling; but the vast horde parted before them like water, and rained in arrows and ever more arrows from safe distance. The Duke regained his lines, but one-fourth of his men had been stricken, and the terrible horse-archers were shooting a more deadly shower than ever.
"The foot! the crossbowmen!" was the cry of the raging knights. And their archers and arbalisters, coming to the front, tried to return the fire as best they could. Many a Seljouk rode no more after their volley, but their shafts were as a bucket on a holocaust. Horsemen, and yet more horsemen, were rolling in. More and more rapid the arrow fire, the sky was dark with flying dust, the ear deafened with the thunders of hoofs uncounted, the clash of the kettledrums, the yell and howl of the Seljouks. Flesh and blood could stand the strain no more. Either the Turks must be routed, or the Franks would perish to a man.
"Charge! Charge!" this time the cry went down the line on every lip. Two arrows had grazed Rollo, despite his leathern armor. Thrice had Richard felt the sting on his ribs, where the mail had turned the shaft. Only one desire had he now,—to ride through or over his tormenters.
"God wills it! Normandy! Normandy!" came from Duke Robert's cavaliers. "Montjoye Saint Denis!" rang from the Count of Chartres. "Biez!" thundered the Auvergners; and the whole steel-mailed line swept upon the Seljouks, like an avalanche. And now a crash! They smote the Turks with might irresistible; thedestrerstrampled down the frail Tartar horses by thousands. What guard were light targets and cotton turbans to the swords of the men of France? For a moment, when Richard reined in Rollo, he believed the foe annihilated.
"God wills it!" myriad voices were calling. Yet even as the dust hung in the air, the arrows began to beat down again. Like flies the Turks had scattered; like flies they returned, new hordes making good all loss. And now the Christians were in deadly peril, for their ranks were all broken into little handfuls, and the Seljouks swarmed round each, trying to trample it down by weight of numbers. Richard led his men back from the charge. Trenchefer was very red. How many Turks opposed the St. Julieners he could not tell, but by the grace of the saints the line was re-formed at last. Prince Bohemond, crafty of heart, but a very lion in battle, flew down the line to steady it.
"We have slain a thousand infidels!" the Count of Chartres was crying. "One more charge and we have victory!"
"One more such victory and we are crowned martyrs!" Prince Tancred made answer. "Robert of Paris is slain, and William, my brother, and a hundred good knights more; and we are being shot down like sparrows."
Another onrush of the Seljouks, this time nearer. Richard felt the moments creeping by with leaden feet. The possibility of a disaster beyond thought stared him in the face. It was one thing to go to death in a fair fight with the sword hot in one's hand—another to sit passive and feel destruction beating down. Yet he was thinking, not of himself, but of another. Prince Tancred, burning to avenge his brother's loss, charged out with his own troop. The Seljouks closed around him like the sea. Bohemond flew to aid, and rescued his nephew. Richard saw Tancred riding back within the lines bareheaded and bloody, his lance broken. "Christ keep our souls, the Seljouks have our bodies," murmured the Breton Count Rothold, "I will not die here!" and he also charged out with his shrill native war-cry, "Malo! Malo!" In a twinkling the hordes rolled round him; Richard and the St. Julieners saved him. But now Robert, the Norman, spurred up to Longsword. The Duke's casque was beaten and gory, his long white pennon red-dyed, his horse wounded.
"De St. Julien, we are lost unless Godfrey and the rest rescue. The first messengers are surely slain. Are your troop still left, and your horses unwounded?" The noise of the Turks made his voice nigh inaudible, but Richard bowed his head.
"Then for the love of Our Saviour, ride, and bring succor. On you hang all our lives!"
"Men of St. Julien," cried Richard, "will you follow me?"
"Through ten thousand devils!" roared back De Carnac and the rest. Richard clapped spurs to Rollo.
"Christ guard us!" was his cry; but his glance was toward the encampment. He led the Auvergners to the left of the battle, where the Seljouk horde seemed thinnest.
And what followed was ever to Richard Longsword as one long wild dream whereof the memory lingered; the reality was blotted out. He knew that he charged his men against the horde, and, as ever, the Turks gave way before them—more victims to be swallowed in their quick-sands. But these Franks, having made their charge, did not turn back. The arrow fire smote them; yet on and on they spurred, still chasing back the foe. And then, when the tribesmen saw that these mad Franks would not wheel back to the encampment, from the fatal line around the Turks closed in, shield to shield, lance to lance. Richard never knew what saint gave strength to his arm that day, and made Trenchefer terrible to the unbelievers. Only after a long delirium of hewing and riding, he saw the open country before. A look backward—behold, he was upon a hill. The Turkish lines stretched away to his left; he had cleared their flank, and the battle raged in its mad carnival behind him. He looked for his men—how few! They had ridden from camp a hundred; scarce fifty were at his back. But the deed was done. They had cleared the Seljouks, and now to Duke Godfrey!
"Lord, I am a very sinful man," prayed Richard, as they pushed their wounded steeds down the hill southward; "unworthy of this mercy. Surely it was through the prayers of a dear saint whose peril is still great."
"Ride, men, ride!" he commanded, and gave head to Rollo, whose tough hide had turned more than one barb. The great black horse tossed out his hoofs and was away. No other St. Julien steed could pace him. He left the band behind, and Richard flew toward the long line of tents he saw nestling under a distant hill. The mighty steed ran like a beast of steel, unwearying, unslacking; hillocks he raced over, gullies he cleared with unfailing leap. The wind whistled in Longsword's hair—his helmet had gone, the saints knew whither; he felt the horse speeding too fast for thought. A few roving stragglers from the Seljouk host pricked after him, two or three arrows twittered overhead. Rollo dropped them all, their small steeds blown and weary, while on the Northern monster ran.
And now he drew near the camp. Men were shouting to him, a great crowd of varlets staring. Rollo ran down the streets of tents, a thousand eyes upon the thundering black horse and his blood-stained rider.
"The Duke! the Duke!" Richard was shouting, as he drew rein before the wide, silken pavilion. A score of knights and squires swarmed around. A strong hand was needed to stay Rollo. Richard sprang breathless to the ground, and stood face to face with Godfrey, just emerging from the tent. "Lord de St. Julien," cried Bouillon, "alone? Covered with blood?" But Richard cut him short.
"Rescue, rescue, as you love Christ! Our host is surrounded, and nigh perishing; Robert of Paris and Prince William are slain. The Seljouk arrows are hail. Rescue, or all is lost."
"By Our Lady of Antwerp!" thundered Godfrey, all action, "blow horns, sound trumpets! Horses; arm; mount!"
No need of more! The word flew through the encampment swifter than light. Now the Duke's war-horns sounded, now Count Hugh's, now Count Raymond's. But Godfrey was foremost. Scarce had Richard quaffed a helmet of water, before the Duke stood before him in his silvered hauberk, and the fifty picked knights of his bodyguard were in saddle. "Give me a horse!" cried Richard. "A horse, my lord duke! for mine has ridden hard, and is wounded."
"By the splendor of God," cried Godfrey, "you will have your fill of fighting! Bring the best sparedestrerand a new helm!"
So Richard was again on horseback; and if he was wounded and weary, he did not know it till later on that fateful day. Rollo he left in safe hands, and followed the Duke.
"To the east, my lord. Their flank is unguarded," he urged. "You may have them all."
And Godfrey rode madly ahead with his bodyguard. After him streamed the Christian heavy cavalry, they too thousands upon thousands—the finest squadrons ever arrayed in sinful war. Then again for Richard the mad delight of the ride! But this time with countless comrades about him; and as the host swept up over the eastern hills, the sun hung in mid-heaven, and made the arms and shields one tossing sea of light. Before and below lay the Seljouk horde and the thin lines of the Christians—very close now; for Kilidge Arslan was pressing in to pluck his prey. But at the sight one mighty cry rolled from fifty thousand throats, "God wills it!" For God had delivered the infidels into Duke Godfrey's hands.
Forward the great host swept. And if the sight of the onrushing Turks had borne terror to the Christians that morning, what terror must have sped among the hordesmen that noon. For the whole army of Kilidge Arslan was caught in a fatal triangle,—the hills where no cavalry might wheel, the lines of Bohemond and Tancred, and the squadrons of Godfrey. "God wills it!" again the cry; and every knight in the onrushing squadrons was holding his lance steady—no sitting in rank now and feeling the beat, beat of the arrows. The Seljouks might not scatter, if they would.
A howl of mortal fear was rising from the unbelievers. The tale later spread that they saw two Christian knights in armor fiery-bright, who rode before the advancing squadrons, whose mail was unpierced by the stoutest lance-thrust, who slew with lightnings flashed from their flaming swords. The cry grew louder and louder. The Christians knew the Turks were calling on Allah and their Prophet to save them,—vain hope! for all the host of Michael and his angels were fighting for the Cross that day.
As he swept on, Richard saw the hordesmen dash their thousands upon Bohemond's thin line,—no arrows now, but striving to crush by mere weight of numbers. He saw the wearied Normans and Bretons spur out to the charge. And then indeed there was fair battle,—the Christian host nigh swallowed in the infidel myriads; but still over all tossed Tancred's white silk banner blazoned with its blood-red cross; and above the howl of the Seljouks rang the cry which the unbelievers that day so learned to dread:—
"God wills it!"
At this moment Godfrey and Raymond, with their fifty thousand mailed cavalry, struck the Turkish hordes, and swept them toward the hills like dust that scurries before the west wind. "God wills it!" The Seljouks were riding for life, the Christian knights trampling them down with their hugedestrers; and sword and battle-axe reaping their bloody harvest. "God wills it!" Richard heard the horns of the Sultan's picked guard sounding the retreat; and the last resistance melted away as the Seljouks fled to a man toward the hills.
As Godfrey and his thousands came on, Bohemond, Tancred, and Robert of Normandy charged forth with their wearied knights—not wearied now—catching the hordesmen on flank and rear, trampling, slaying, pursuing. And when the rescued cavaliers saw Longsword flying at Bouillon's side, another great shout went down the line, "Richard Longsword! Richard de St. Julien!" Then the Norman held his head very proudly, for he thought, "What joy will this be to Mary!"
"On! on!" urged Duke Godfrey, never drawing rein, while the rout and chase swept forward. "To the hills after them! Let none escape! God and Our Lady are with us!"
"Dex aiè," thundered the rescued Normans, and the whole host flew faster. Swift were the Seljouk horses; but the shivered hordes, crowding together in the narrow valley, were mown as grass before the Christian onset. Up among the rocks the pursuit was driven; steeds fell, their riders trampled down instantly. The Seljouks gained the crags where lay their camp, dismounted, stood at bay. But the Franks had dismounted also, and spread around the hills a forest of lances. On the front attacked Raymond; on the flanks Robert of Flanders, Duke Robert, Godfrey, Hugh, and Tancred; while brave Bishop Adhemar led the attack from the rear. Then came the final stand. The Turks fought as beasts at bay. But the Christians were raging lions; they stormed the camp, broke the spear wall, scattered the bodyguard of Kilidge Arslan himself. The Seljouks, like frighted partridges, scampered over rocks and craggy peaks, where their heavy-armed foe might not follow. So some escaped, but a score of thousands then and there perished; for quarter none asked or gave. Foremost in the press had been Richard. He long since had cast away his shattered shield; but the hauberk of Valencia was bulwark against a dozen deaths. Every time his good arm brought low an infidel he was glad; was he not performing to God a holy service? When the Seljouks broke once more after the storming of the camp, Longsword regained his horse to chase down those who hazarded flight in the plain country. The sun was hanging low in the heavens now. Old knights were praying Charlemagne's prayer at Roncesvalles—that the day might lengthen while they hunted the Moslem.
Richard rode with Gaston of Béarn, who had been not the least valiant of the many brave that day; and as he rode, again and again he came across fugitives, not in the fantastic colors of the Seljouk, but in a dress all white with red girdles and sandals. Often as they came on such, the pursued would turn and charge Gaston's whole troop with a mad fury that Frankish valor could scarce master. Presently, just as the shadows began to spread on the hills, Longsword saw before him a band of horsemen, clothed in white, in their midst the figure of a mighty warrior in gilded mail, upon a tall bay charger, and across that rider's saddle it seemed a prisoner in pale dress with fluttering red ribbons,—to Richard's mind, a woman. "After! After! A prisoner!" cried Gaston, putting his horse at a last burst of speed,—a good steed, but he had been ridden hard; and the fugitives still drew ahead. Richard clapped spurs to his mount; the beast, one of the best of Duke Godfrey, shot past Gaston, and the distance betwixt Richard and the strange rider lessened.
Richard could see now that the captive was indeed a woman, that she was struggling in the arms of her captor. Once he thought he caught her cry, despite the yells of the flying Moslems, who were invoking all the jinns to give them speed. He rode past the rearmost fugitive, who turned for fight, saw before him a brown-faced Arab, saw the cimeter dancing in his face; felt the steel edge glance on his helmet—a great rush of blood nigh blinding; a stroke of Trenchefer cleaving something—the Arab was gone. Richard dashed away the blood with his fist, pressed the spurs harder. The prisoner leaned out and shook forth her ribbons—Mother of Mercies! how like the ribbons of Mary! And had he never seen that splendid rider before? Again he spurred, and slapped his steed with the flat of his sword. Faster and faster; the blood once more blinded; once he brushed it away; long since his lance had been shattered in pieces, but Trenchefer was brazed to his arm. A last burst of speed; he could see the Arab warrior struggling with his arms about the captive; one instant more and he would breast the strange champion. But even as he pressed the spur, the good horse stumbled, plunged, was down, and Richard dashed upon the ground. An instant only. He was bruised; but he staggered to his feet, Trenchefer still in hand. "Allah akhbar!" rang the shout of the Arab, a voice he knew full well, yet had heard—where? Longsword dragged the kickingdestrerfrom the ground. The good horse stood, made a step—he was lamed; walking were pain. And as Richard looked, his quarry sped over a hillock, was gone; while he stood staring after, scarce knowing that from head to heels he was bruised, and that the warm blood was streaming over his face. Only the darkening landscape seemed circling round and round, and his ears were ringing, yet not with the shout of receding battle. Gaston of Béarn had ridden up with his men. "Holy St. Barbara," the viscount was crying, "you are sorely hurt, fair friend. Your horse is lamed. Ho! Peter, dismount and put my Lord de St. Julien in your saddle. We must ride for the camp. Already it is darkening."
"No!" exhorted Richard, "continue the chase. Do not let those Arab fiends escape. They have a Christian prisoner, a lady, I swear by the four Gospels!"
"A lady!" exclaimed Gaston. "No prisoner! doubtless she is one of their tent women, whom the riders are trying to save. How could any Christian maid fall into their hands? Fighting we have had to a fill to-day, and none more than you, fair knight."
They put Richard upon the man-at-arms's horse. He was so weak now that Gaston rode at one side, and a squire at the other, to guard against a fall. As they rode back toward the encampment the stars were peeping out, and the moon had begun to climb above the hills. There was a thin gray haze spreading from the shallow river and marsh. Men talked in whispers, save as here and there they passed one lying wounded and moaning. All over the plain torches were moving about, priests and women seeking the Christian wounded, giving water to the dying, and with them camp varlets,—rabbits during the battle, but brave enough now,—plundering the fallen Turks, and slaying those who still breathed. Richard saw the great spoil of the Seljouk camp borne off in triumph: gold-threaded carpets, coin, horses,—many camels, that the marvelling victors, who had never seen such ill-shaped bulks before, thought the devil himself must have begotten.
Closer to the Christian camp the Frankish dead lay thickly on the ground. Raymond of Agiles was making the sign of the cross above each. "Blessed are these!" cried he; "already St. Michael leads them before Our Father; they have white robes and palms, and raise the anthem everlasting."
They rode on, and to them joined the Count of Chartres, shouting: "Praised be all angels, De St. Julien! You saved us all; the infidels were in the very camp!"
"The camp!" cried Richard, starting from his seat.
"Assuredly; Stephen of Blois and Bohemond strove to drive them out; there is a rumor certain women were carried captive. A scared horse-boy's tale, I trust! Holy Mother! You are wounded, my Baron! You nigh fall from the saddle!"
And Gaston of Béarn and Chartres caught Longsword, as he reeled.
"Unhand me, sirs!" shouted Richard, thrusting them both back roughly; "I am unhurt. I must go to the camp!"
And he spurred away headlong, his bruise nowhere, one horrible thought mastering all.
Yet as he reached the camp, now very dim in the twilight, a deadly sense of weakness and weariness was stealing over him. Food? Save for a mouthful of bread while he buckled on his armor, he had tasted none that direful day. Water? He had not touched a drop since leaving Duke Godfrey's camp. Wounds? He was bleeding in a dozen places. He felt the firm earth spinning. Would there never be end to the frightful pound, pound of the horse under him? His sight was dimming, ears rang; but, summoning all his will, he controlled himself.
"Dear Christ," was his prayer, "do not let me faint until, until"—but he could go no farther. When, however, he passed more knights and men-at-arms bringing in the spoil, laughing and boasting over their valiant deeds, his breast grew lighter. When the infidels had been so utterly broken, what was there to fear? The rush of faintness passed, he again sat steady in the saddle. And as many as recognized him in the dusk raised the cry that swelled as the rest caught it: "Ho! De St. Julien! Hail! De St. Julien! Our Lady bless you, fair lord, you have saved us all this day!" But the shout that had been music in his ears two hours earlier he scarce heard. Prince Tancred passed him, called on him to stay; he spurred on, though the poor soldier's horse under him nigh dropped of weariness.
In the camp at last. The fires were being rekindled; around each little groups, over the loot of the Turkish camps. The wounded were groaning on the dry turf, men were bringing in the dead, and here and there women wailing. Richard knew the way to his own encampment, as if by instinct. And as he rode his blood chilled yet more when he saw here and there tents down, their walls torn, pegs wrenched, poles shattered, and contents scattered around. Then it was true the Seljouks had stormed the camp! Before him he saw the little group of pavilions over which the St. Julien banner had waved that morning—the banner was gone! His horse stumbled over a body. He dismounted. The moon was rising; in the pale light he saw the face of one of his own grooms—set in death. Men were standing before the tents, some tugging at the cords as if to retighten them, some kindling a fire, some in groups, talking in low, scared whispers. In the dimness they did not see Richard, as he came up on foot.
"Holy St. Maurice," one was muttering, "may I not be the first to tell the tale to my lord!"
"Fellow!" thundered Richard, bursting into the little group, and clapped a hand heavy as a millstone on the man-at-arms's shoulder. "Rascal! Speak! Speak! What is this? Dumb as a mute? Why no banner? The tents in disorder? Where is—" But the words came not, for his dry tongue clove fast in his mouth.
No answer. The retainer turned as pale and quaking as if the devil's self had accosted him.
"Speak! speak!" raged Richard, making his victim writhe under his iron grip. Still nothing. He looked at those around; silent all. He was too fearful to be angry.
"Mary! Mary de St. Julien!" cried he, finding the name at last; "if you are here,—one word,—or I am in perdition!" Still silence. He saw one of the men-at-arms crossing himself; he saw that the pavilion where he had left his wife was half overturned; he saw lying across the entrance a dead body, and the firelight showed the white dress and the red girdle and shoes.
"For the love of Christ!" was his plea, "will no one speak? or must I kill you all?" In his frenzy he half drew Trenchefer. And just as all gave way, when they saw the moonlight waver on the blade still red, there was a step, and a voice—Sebastian's voice—spoke:—
"Sweet son, bow to the will of God. Listen! I have just returned to the camp with Herbert and the rest. Mary Kurkuas is not here. Theroulde will tell all."
They heard a groan from Richard, that none forgot to his dying day. A javelin was lying against a tent-pole; as Theroulde stepped reluctantly out from the silent circle, the Baron sent the dart whistling past his head.
"Die!—coward! traitor!" then Longsword cursed terribly when the cast missed and flew into the dark.
Sebastian had him by the arm.
"Gilbert de Valmont!" whispered he, never trembling when Richard raised his fist to strike. "Remember him! Add not one sin to another! Listen to Theroulde!"
"Traitor!" stormed Richard, but the priest held him fast. "Why could you not die defending your mistress?"
"Hearken, my Lord de St. Julien, then call me traitor and coward if you will!" cried the minstrel, brave at last. "And see if there be no worse traitors than I? Would God you had listened to the warnings of us all against that smooth-tongued Hossein,—as if Christian faith could ever lurk beneath so swart a skin."
Richard had steadied himself.
"Go on, my man," he said, very quietly now, yet in a tone that set all a-quaking; for they could not comprehend. They only knew a strong spirit was in agony.
"Lord," said Theroulde, "if one jot of what I say be other than truth, so smite me dead, and let Satan own me forever. As we lay in the camp after you had led forth most of the fighting-men, soon we heard the rush and roar of battle, and presently some came flying, who said the cavaliers were hard pressed, and many slain. And all the time my lady sat before the tent upon the rugs we laid for her, resting her chin on her hands, and saying nothing. Yet she was not tearful nor pale, at which we marvelled, for we knew she thought that every roar and shout might betoken your fall, and her mind had only room for that. Then after the battle had raged long, and stragglers and wounded began coming in with tales that grew ever blacker, I said to Hossein, who sat by me, 'Brother, go to the edge of the camp, see if the St. Julien banner still towers high, and bring back word to my lady.' For I did not intend to quit her side, and was glad to have him gone. So he went without delay and was gone a long time, while the din of battle continually grew louder and nearer. Yet when he returned, he said, 'I went so close to the battle lines that—see! two arrows grazed me!' Then to your wife, 'Most august mistress, your lord's banner is not in sight; but fear nothing. He is not slain, they tell me, but has ridden to summon help from Duke Godfrey.' Then my lady's cheeks began to glow, and I imagine she was thinking of your return and the victory."
"For Our Lord's sake, no more of what you imagine!" came from Richard. "Tell only what youknow!"
"Scarce had he returned"—went on Theroulde, his voice faltering—"when we heard a frightful clamor from the rear and flank of the camp by the river and marsh. Soon grooms and women ran by crying, 'The infidels are on us, slaying all!' And sooner than thought, we beheld the Seljouk horsemen, sword in hand, dashing among the tents, cutting down old man, priest, and woman, without quarter. Then I laid hands on a crossbow. 'Hossein,' cried I, 'if you are true Christian, die with me for our mistress!' But he only smiled, and drawing his cimeter, gave a mighty howl that rose above all other din. Ere I could look upon my lady, lo,—there were horsemen by our tents—Arabs—not Turks—in white, with red girdles; and Hossein shouted in their speech, 'This way, Cid Iftikhar; here is the Star of the Greeks!' And I saw Iftikhar Eddauleh himself upon a splendid horse, in flashing armor. Then I sped a crossbow bolt through one of his riders, cut down a second with my sword, and struck at Hossein, thinking to end his treachery. But Iftikhar swung once at me,—I knew no more. When I came to myself I found that I was under the wreck of the tent. Hours had sped; the battle had drifted away. The emir's sword had turned in his hand; the blunt edge smote me. I had a mighty blow, but will be none the worse—praise the saints! I looked for my lady—gone! All the grooms and varlets are slain, and old Sylvana the nurse. Hossein gone—and the devils ride with him! And for me, my Lord de St. Julien, if I have been coward or traitor, strike off my head. You are my judge."
Richard tore from his neck his heavy gold chain.
"You are a right valiant man, Theroulde, and no boaster. I believe your tale," said he, throwing him the gold links; "and now a horse—a fresh horse!"
Sebastian still held him.
"Madness!" cried the priest; "it is dark; you have been up since before dawn! For what is this horse?"
"To ride after Iftikhar Eddauleh," came from between Richard's teeth; "and if I find him not—to slay as many of his cursed race as I may; and then to curse God and die!"
While he spoke the moonbeams rested full on his face, and all beholding saw that it had aged in one hour; the lines wrought on it by the death of Gilbert were still there—and more. Had his hair shone white, none would have been amazed. "Christ pity him!" muttered old Herbert, the most fervent prayer of the veteran for many a wicked day.
But Sebastian would not let Richard go.
"As you fear God," commanded the priest, "be quiet; do not fling your life away!"
"I fear God no longer," was Richard's cry. "I only hate Him!"
Sebastian led him into the tent, with a touch soft and tender as a woman's. "Dear lad," he said gently, "God will not be angry unduly with you for what you have just said, though its sin is very great. You think, 'How can this thing be and God be still good?' Remember the words of holy Anselm of Canterbury, 'I ask not to understand that I may believe; but I believe that I may learn to understand.'"
"Father," said Richard, with a terrible calmness in his voice, "if for my own sins I had been doomed to some great woe, I could say 'mea culpa,—merciful chastisement'; but since the chief suffering will be that of as pure a saint as ever breathed this air, I cannot endure without a groan. I only know that the hand of God is exceeding heavy upon me, and my burden is more than I can bear." Then, to the infinite relief of Sebastian and the rest, he let them take off his blood-soaked armor and shirt, and stanch the wounds, which were none very deep, but so many that he was weak from loss of blood. Presently Herbert came in and reported: "Little lord, our men took thirty Turks prisoners when the camp was stormed; shall we keep them to put to ransom?" Richard was not too feeble to leap from the rugs. "Kill! kill!" he foamed out; "if Satan wait long for their souls, let him have mine too!"
Herbert smiled grimly and went out of the tent.
"Ai," cried Longsword to Sebastian, when the priest forced him to lie down once more, "I do well to be cruel,—for there is no sweet angel now to teach me mercy. God reward me double beyond present griefs, if I slay not my share of the infidels! Therefore let me grow pitiless and terrible."
"You should hate and slay the Lord's enemies, dear son," said Sebastian, crossing himself; "yet beware lest you fight for your own revenge, and not for the glory of God."
"Enough if I slay them!" was the answer. Then Richard took food and drink, and toward morning slept.
So ended the day of Dorylæum, the battle where, as the pious chronicler puts it, "by the aid of St. James and St. Maurice the Christians had a great deliverance from their enemies, and twenty-three thousand infidels were sped to perdition; such being the singular favor of God."