"Ya," he heard her demand; "will you call the 'devoted'? Will you deliver me up to Iftikhar?"
"He swears he will have you flayed alive," gasped the dwarf; "why should I save you after what you have done to me?"
"Why?" laughed Morgiana. "Listen, Zeyneb. Did Hakem awake after I cut his throat? What hindered me to do the like to you."
Zeyneb hung his head. "It is true," he confessed; "you spared me."
"I spared you," she reëchoed, laughing after her unearthly manner, "not through love—Allah forbid!—but because you were my foster-brother, and faithful to Iftikhar. The Greek is gone—gone forever—praised be the Most High! Iftikhar in his mad pride will go to Antioch, where—and the omens of the smoke never lie—only woe awaits. He casts me away, but I will not leave him. He curses; I will never forsake. I am strong, I can yet save."
"Allah!" cried the dwarf—her spell once more over him—"what do you desire?"
"That you aid me to go to Antioch. You have means and wits. Then, unknown to him, I shall be at Iftikhar's side, to stand betwixt him and the danger."
Rollo had dropped to a slower pace; at last had halted. Richard had set Mary down on a grassy hummock and gone back to his steed. The great beast was reeking with sweat, panting in strong gusts such as blow from a smithy's bellows. Richard plucked off his outer mantle—long since tattered—and rubbed the steaming flanks and back of the brute; while all the time he patted him, and praised him for having done a deed right worthy of a Christiandestrerpacing the steeds of the unbelievers. But it was Mary who rose, and put her fair white arms round black Rollo's neck, and her cheek against the white spot on his forehead.
"Ah! dear Lord Jesus Christ," said she, "if there be indeed a heaven where good horses go, surely our Rollo will be there, a very angel!"
Richard laughed merrily, when he imagined the huge brute duly decked with halo and with wings. But Rollo, sensible fellow, who knew that he had only done his duty as became an honest horse, sniffed for water, found none, and then began to munch the thorny wayside thistles with as much relish as might a desert camel. Musa and Godfrey had dismounted, and were praising their steeds also. Well they deserved it, but neither had borne the burden of Rollo, or run as did he. When Richard turned once more to Mary, she gave a great cry.
"Mother of Sorrows," began the knight, "were you wounded?"
"I!" the Greek was saying. "They have nigh slain you! You have a hundred wounds!"
In truth Longsword was no pretty sight. For one could not fight and ride a night long, and not have bloody cheeks, bloody hands, and a cut on the right thigh where a cimeter had brushed away the Valencia mail. Richard wiped it off as best he could.
"It is nothing!" protested he, gayly; "ten times have I bled worse, and never been the sadder,—at Dorylæum, and time and again about Antioch."
"Ah, Richard," said she, "some day it may befall that if not you, another will be sadder if you risk your dear life lightly."
"And why not risk it, when I deemed you were worse than dead to me?"
Mary lifted her face. "But I am not dead, sweet husband; for my sake do not throw your life away. Above all, swear you will shun to meet Iftikhar. He is a terrible man."
But the Norman shook his head. "Dear life—say to me 'Pluck me down three stars,' and I will try; but avoid Iftikhar I cannot. God created us both; but not a world large enough to hold us both. Yet do not fear."
"Ah! Richard," said she, smiling in turn, "you also are a terrible man as well as Iftikhar. I tremble when I think I have the love of beings so grand, so valorous, as you. I know my love and my pain stand often but one step apart. But I have chosen you. And you must play your game, and—when God wills—die your death in your own way; while I will love and trust you to the end."
Though his face was bleeding, she kissed him.
"I am a cavalier's daughter, and a cavalier's wife," said she, more lightly; "red wine and white must be alike to me."
Then Musa and Godfrey came up, courteously asking if the lady was well, and heaping praise on Rollo.
"There lies a ravine with a sweet spring, beyond the next hillock," said Musa, who never forgot a road once travelled. "Let us ride thither. From its crest we can command a wide view, if any party approaches. Let us rest a little—the Star of the Greeks slept none too much last night."
Mary pouted at the suggestion that they must wait for her alone. But in truth the horses sadly needed a halt. Richard knew Godfrey's heart was in the camp at Antioch lying unwarned of the impending danger. But even his Marchegai walked wearily as they climbed the little hill. The sun was fast mounting upward, promising a clear, hot day. Beyond the hillock, as the Spaniard had said, was a deep, cool ravine, an oasis in the desert of dry grass and thistle, where a little spring bubbled from the limestone, and threaded down a rocky bed. Over all swayed a few aged cypresses, an oleander thicket, ferns, and the twining wild vine. Here they drank till thirst was ended. Then while the three horses nibbled the grass, Richard found bread, and cheese, and broken meat in the saddle-bags, and they had their feast. That ended, the men saw the eyes of the Greek were very heavy, though she vowed she was not weary.
"No fear, dear lady," quoth Musa. "As we watch, not a crow can fly within a league without our seeing. It is safest to ride by night. Let me stand sentry for a time; then I will rouse Richard, and Lord Godfrey shall relieve in turn." So, having resaddled the horses, and prepared for instant flight, he took his cimeter and climbed to the summit. Godfrey cast himself beneath a cypress, and his snoring soon told its story. Mary's eyes were scarcely peeping now.
"Come, my Lord Baron," said she, smiling drowsily; "let your little wife fall asleep with her head in your lap."
And lying under the spreading trees, she did as she wished; for how could Richard refuse her? She cast a last look into his face.
"How you have changed! How fierce your great beard makes you! You will be more marked with scars than your father. Once I thought the only man I could love must be a beautiful youth like the Apollo of Scopas in our Constantinople home. How different! I ought to fear you, as all men fear you. But I do not—do not. For you are—Richard."
The last words had come very slowly; there came no more. There was a little flutter of her breast and lips when she turned in her sleep. Richard sat a long time; his hands—great clumsy hands—now on her hair, now on her forehead, now on her neck. What had he done so pleasing to Heaven that he had been possessed of this—of this! The events of the past night buzzed about him—the shadow of death in so many forms!—how unreal the horrors seemed as they flitted by! He knew he ought to lay Mary's head upon the grass and relieve Musa's watch. But his eyes also were very heavy. He could not bring himself to disturb that crown of hair. The ravine and the trees grew dim. At last Richard thought he was back in St. Julien a-hunting, only the dogs were pulling down Harun, the Ismaelian, in place of a stag. This also passed away; he seemed drifting onward, onward,—until he heard a voice close by:—
"Wallah!How beautiful she is, and how she loves him!"
Richard raised his head. Musa was standing beside him; the sunbeams were slanting from the west.
"Holy cross!" exclaimed the Norman; "the day is sped. I have slept through all. And Duke Godfrey?" Musa smiled.
"Look!" The good Duke was still in the sleep of the righteous.
"You have been sole sentinel. Why did you not wake us?" cried Richard. Musa again laughed.
"If I can wield no cudgels of marble, I have a manner of strength. Many a night long at Cordova I have counted the hours over my books. My fellows said, 'Musa is like Allah; he never sleeps.' No foe in sight; no need of haste."
There was a stir on Richard's lap; the long lashes unclosed.
"Have I slept very long?" said the Greek, with a pretty sigh.
"None too long," answered the Spaniard. "I have made bow and arrows, and killed two desert partridges. Let us sup and be off."
Godfrey awoke and cursed the devil that made him sleepy. Musa had made a fire. They ate with a relish. Then Richard swung his wife into the saddle, and Rollo pranced gleefully as he took the road with his precious burden. They rode steadily until far into the night, meeting no one; then halted, resting on the dry grass until the moon had risen and lit the way. As they galloped onward, once or twice they thought they heard hoof-beats and saw distant objects moving; but nothing came close to threaten. The sun had but just risen when they climbed a commanding height east of the Orontes, where the fair valley, spreading down to Antioch, lay full in view. Godfrey was leading, when Richard saw him rein Marchegai short, and heard a bitter cry. "God Himself is leagued against us!"
Below the whole plain was covered with the squadrons of a countless host!
From their hilltop they could view the strange army in its fulness. Near by, a squadron of light horsemen were speeding, their arms flashing under the brightening sun. Farther on a brown line was winding—small as of creeping ants; but Longsword knew he beheld footmen on the march, and their numbers were thousands. Perched on a knoll in the hills were gay pavilions, and above them glittered a sultan's twin banners, silver and gold. Beyond them was a second pair, enringed by other tents; beyond these a third, a fourth; and the eye grew weary counting the companies. Iftikhar had indeed boasted well—Kerbogha and all the might of the East was moving to the succor of Antioch. God alone knew if the Christian host would be warned in time! The Norman brushed his hand across his eyes, as if to dispel this ill-fraught vision. But vision it was not. The innumerable host, the marching columns, the sultans' and emirs' encampments, still were there.
For a moment all were dumb. Musa spoke first.
"As the Most High lives, this is a magician's work!"
Godfrey only smiled gravely.
"No, fair sir, it is the army of Kerbogha. When I quitted camp, we hoped he was still delaying before Edessa. But come he has, and unless I greatly fail, there are none in the army that dream he is so near."
"So near, and not discovered?" demanded Longsword. The Duke laughed wearily. "Even you, De St. Julien, do not know how feeble has been our scouting. From the lowlands about Antioch we can see little of this host; only a few advance squadrons that will retire when charged. I greatly fear—"
But Richard interposed: "That the Army of the Cross is near surprise, as Iftikhar vaunted. But are not Christ and Our Lady still with us? Has God ceased to hear prayer?"
The elder knight crossed himself. "It is true, fair sir, our faith is very weak. We are still stronger than ten thousand thousand paynims!" Then he turned almost fiercely upon Musa. "And you, Sir Infidel, is your heart with this army and its purpose? They are of your own faith. Do you wish them well?"
Musa shook his head thoughtfully:—
"They fight not for Islam, but for their own dark ends. Can any good thing come from Kerbogha, Iftikhar's ally? I serve the kalif of Egypt, not the emir of Mosul."
They said no more. What was left to say? The hopes of a day had been blasted in an instant. Seemingly the army of the emir lay directly across their road to the city. As the hilltop was exposed to view, they retired behind to where a tiny brooklet started amid a clump of date palms. And well they did, for as they drew rein came a click and canter, and a single Arab horseman whirled down the hill slope, thinking least of all to meet an enemy. Before any knew it, he was face to face with them, had halted with a yell, stared once, turned to fly; but Godfrey had touched Marchegai, and he bounded beside the Arab, whom the Duke unsaddled before he could draw cimeter. Richard ran to him, as also Musa. So they held the prisoner fast, and led him to the brooklet, nipping his throat tightly to choke an outcry. Then, when the horse also had been taken, and his captors had him on his back, Godfrey held a dagger at his throat to give good reason for talking softly. The rascal whined piteously to be killed without torture; for, he moaned, the Franks were wont to broil prisoners alive for eating.
"Stop croaking, frog," commanded Longsword, fiercely. "Only as you speak truly, may you keep a whole windpipe;—if not—" The silence was the most terrible threat. So the wretch told a story that seemed likely enough. He was a light rider serving with Dekak of Damascus. Kerbogha's host had advanced from Edessa, constantly swelling in numbers. There were twenty-eight emirs from Syria and Mesopotamia with him; Kilidge Arslan, burning to avenge the defeat at Dorylæum, the former emir of Jerusalem, and many princes more had led their myriads. The army had solemnly sworn by the beard of the Prophet to leave not one Christian to return to Frankland to tell the tale. They had advanced by stealthy marches from Afrin, and were now within a few leagues of Antioch itself; but to the prisoner's best knowledge the Christians had not discovered them. Then came an astonishing piece of news: while Kerbogha had advanced, Antioch had fallen. Two days earlier,—so the tale in the Moslem camp ran,—Phirous the Armenian had betrayed a tower to Bohemond, and all the city except the citadel had fallen to the Crusaders. This was the sum of the fellow's tale, and Godfrey liked it little.
"So Bohemond made shift to take the city while he thought me away on the southern foray!" growled he, almost bitterly. "Gratias Deo,—I ought to say. But I know the manner of these knaves that follow us. Seven days long they will plunder, kill, and revel, thinking of ten thousand things before scouting. They will be snared one and all. Kerbogha will surprise the city. It will be their grave,—the grave of fools!"
"And why is not the army moving?" demanded Richard.
"We wait for Cid Iftikhar with all his Ismaelians. Men whisper that it is he in private council, not Kerbogha, who will rule the war."
Richard smiled grimly.
"Cid Iftikhar has had cause to delay. But tell me: does the line of Kerbogha compass the whole city? How may we enter?"
The dagger's edge was cold against the Arab's throat, a goodly check to lying, and there was something in Richard's eye that made it dangerous to haggle with the truth.
"Cid,—I tell you truly,—it will be a great peril for any Christian to try to enter Antioch. But if you ride to the south and then westward, touching the river below the city, I think you might pass, if Allah favor."
Longsword withdrew the dagger.
"See!" commented he; "the word of a Frank is inviolate. Swear you will whisper, not even to the winds, you were met by us; and you are free. Only we must keep your horse."
The Arab swore by the "triple-divorcement" (an oath Musa declared all-abiding), and rejoiced to struggle to his feet.
"I am secret as the Judgment book, my Cid!" quoth he, in his gratitude. Godfrey motioned him away.
"Remember your oath, then, and begone."
The fellow climbed the hillside, blessing Allah he was still alive. But those he left had a gloomy council. They were in no state for high and brave speech. Presently Richard began in his quiet way, sure token of determination: "We cannot remain here. Others may pass, in greater numbers. We have captured a fresh horse, and must make over the saddle for my wife."
But Musa stood listless, his eyes on the ground.
"We are in Allah's hands, brother," said he, with a despairing wave of the hand. "We have done all men might. Useless—fate is wearied with saving us. We can do nothing more. If our doom is written, it is written."
And Richard saw that the proud spirit of his friend was bowed at last. The heart of Musa was sprung from the East; the word "fate" was a deadly talisman to him, as to all his race. But the Norman caught him roughly by the shoulder.
"Rouse up, Musa, son of Abdallah! Do not anger God by saying, 'He puts forth His arm to save us all in vain,—to save from the cord, the cimeter, the fire, and the arrow, only to wait for slaughter like cows!' We have good swords and strong hearts still! Bowed heads never won triumph. Rouse up; your wits are not frozen. When one wills to have victory, victory is at hand."
Musa lifted his face; his eyes were again flashing.
"You say well, brother; I am turned coward. Do what you will; I follow."
Richard swept his arm around in a circle.
"We cannot recross this barren country; no refuge there. And Antioch must be warned. But there is safety for my wife and for you."
"Safety for me and for Musa? What?" Mary, long silent, demanded.
Richard hesitated; then drove on into seemingly reckless words.
"You have wits keener than your cimeter, Musa, and can tell a tale to deceive sage Oberon. Take my wife; ride boldly into the camp of Kerbogha. Say you are an Arab gentleman with a Greek slave fleeing from the Frankish raiders at Alexandretta; that Turkomen bandits met your party on the way and scattered it. Dress up the tale—they will believe you. Unless you meet Iftikhar or Zeyneb face to face, none will doubt. At first chance sail for Egypt, and be safe."
"And you and Cid Godfrey?"
Richard pointed over the hill toward Antioch; then drew back his mantle. Upon the ring-shirt was the red cross of the Crusade.
"We are soldiers of Christ, and must warn our brethren."
"Mashallah!You shall attempt nothing," cried the Spaniard. "You rebuked me; yet you rush into the arms of death! Your wife!"
And Godfrey added eagerly:—
"Yes, by St. Denis,—my duty calls to Antioch, but not yours. One can pass as safely as two. Think of your wife, De St. Julien. If Musa prospers at all, he can pass you for a body-servant or the like. I alone will go to Antioch."
Richard was very pale, and Mary likewise; but before he could answer, she thrust herself between the Norman and his friends.
"You say well, my lord and husband," said she, simply; "you belong first to Christ and then to me."
"O sweet lady," broke out Musa, "pray him for your sake, if not for his own, to go with us; to forget his madness."
Mary looked from one to the other. Her hands clasped and unclasped nervously, but her voice was calm and sweet.
"No, brave Musa, I cannot say to Richard 'turn back,'—though my Lord Godfrey says it. Cursed would be my love for him, and his for me, if thus he was turned from his vow to Our Lord, and from duty to his comrades. I did not love him, to make him slave to my fears and desires. Rather I saw him as something higher far than I; like a mountain whose shadows would cover me; but whose height I would not lessen. For my heart—as your heart and Duke Godfrey's heart—tells me his duty is in the city, not with me. And whether he dies—which Christ forbid!—or lives to see the victory, I shall know my love has been sweeter than all the pain."
Mary stood with her head erect; her eyes bright, but not with tears.
Richard turned to the others, smiling.
"Ah; good friends, how can I be weak when my dear wife is so strong!" They did not answer. Then he touched Musa, leading him aside. "I must speak with you."
The Andalusian's eyes were wet. He was no ice-bound northerner, to nurse his fires deep within, and to wax more stony the more they burned.
"Musa," said Richard, very directly, "we have been to each other as few brothers and fewer friends. God knows why you have run this peril. Yet I believe you care more for the Greek than for any woman, if you have loved any, save as a sister."
The Spaniard shrugged his shoulders almost gayly.
"If to any woman I could yield," said he, lightly, "it were to her, peerless from Andalus to Ind! Alas, I am clothed in some magic armor the darts of the eyes of the houris may not pierce; yet if any eyes could pierce, it would be those of Mary de St. Julien."
Richard held his lips close to the other's ear.
"Musa," said he, "I may get into Antioch; but a long road lies still to Jerusalem. Where the arrows sing, I must be. And if I fall"—he spoke lower—"Mary will be alone. She cannot go to La Haye and be wedded to another by her uncle, as would surely be her fate. Not a kinsman remains at Constantinople. You must"—he hesitated—"you must swear to me that you will love her; that if I die, she shall be your wife. For Moslem as you are, no man breathes I would rather see with his arms about her than you. You alone can make her forget me; make her look forward and laugh in the sunlight."
Why were beads of sweat on the Spaniard's brow? Why came his breath so swift and deep? But he answered steadily:—
"Brother mine, you ask a great thing; yet I accept it. If it is written by the stars that you fall, I swear I will stand in your place to the Star of the Greeks. May she never want love and service while life is mine! But till that day I will be to her as a brother, no more, no less; and let Allah speed the hour when I can give her back spotless to your arms."
They said no more, those two strong men; their clasped hands sealed the pledge. Richard walked back to Mary.
"Dear heart," said he, "we Franks have a proverb, 'Hunger drives the wolf from the woods.' We cannot stand here forever. Why should we grieve? Have I not seen your face two nights and a day; and do I not commit you to the noblest friend in all the wide earth? When I enter the city, I will show three red shields above the Gate of St. George; and if all goes well with you, let Musa contrive to set three lances with red pennons before it at an arrow's flight, as sign that your tale is credited and you are safe in Kerbogha's camp."
"We will not fail," said Musa, calmly. Richard adjusted the saddle of the captured horse so that Mary might ride. No stragglers were at the moment in sight. The Norman kissed his friend on both cheeks. He pressed the Greek once to his breast. Death was not paler than she; but she did not cry.
"You are my cavalier, my saviour, my husband," said she, lifting her eyes. "You are your Roland and our Greek Achilles! Dear God, what have I done that for an hour you should love me?"
"Our Lady keep you, sweet wife!" was the only answer.
"And you, Richard mine."
That was all that passed. Musa spoke his farewell with his eyes. Godfrey bowed ceremoniously to the Spaniard; kissed the lady's hand. His honest heart was too deeply moved for words. Richard swung onto Rollo without touching stirrup. He did not look back. Marchegai cantered beside. The horses whirled their riders over the hillside. Soon the view before and behind was hid by the close thickets that lined the foothills. Richard rode with his head bent over Rollo's black mane, letting the horse thunder at will at the heels of Marchegai. The Norman's thoughts? Drowning men, report has it, live a long life through in a twinkling. Richard's life was not long; yet not once, but many times, he lived it over during that ride—the good things, the evil; and the evil were so many! And always before his sight was the vision of that face, pale as marble, the eyes fairer than stars—that face he had put away because of the love for the unseen Christ.
Now of much that passed in that ride Richard remembered little; but he followed Godfrey blindly. And a voice seemed to repeat in his ears time and again: "Turn back, Richard Longsword, turn back. You can yet rejoin Musa and Mary. There is safety in the camp of Kerbogha. You are not needed in the threatened city. Leave the army to God. You have long since slain enough Moslems to clear your guilt and vow."
But Richard would cross himself and mutter prayers, calling on every saint to fight against the assailing devils. As he rode, he saw remnants all about of the old pagan world where there had been love of sunlight, of flowers, of fair forms, and men had never borne a pain or struck a blow for love of the suffering Christ or the single Allah. They were on a road, he knew, that led to the Grove of Daphne. He had heard Mary tell of the sinful heathen processions that once must have traversed this very way,—revellers brimming with unholy mirth, their souls devoted to the buffets of Satan.
Once he and Godfrey drew rein at a wayside spring to water the horses. Lo, beside the trickling brook was a block of weather-stained marble, carved into the fashion of a maiden fair as the dawn. Mother of Christ! Was it not enchantment that made that stony face take on the likeness of Mary the Greek? What heathen demon made the lips speak to him, "Back! back! Do not cast your life away"?
"St. Michael—away, the temptress!" he thundered, and with Trenchefer smote the stone, so that the smile and the beauty were dashed forever. "Kyrie eleison! Christe eleison!" prayed Richard; "Holy St. Julien, patron of my house, forbid these fiends to tempt me!"
Yet all the wood seemed full of witchery and the voices of devils,—the old pagan devils, Pan, and Apollin, and Dian, and Hercules, and countless more,—who whispered ever that Christ and His heaven were very far away; that life was sweet, the sun was sweet, and sweetest of all a woman's love. But Richard muttered his prayers and rode onward; trusting that they might meet the infidels in flesh and blood, not sprites of the air whose arrows no ring mail could turn.
At last, after the sun had climbed high, and the horses had dropped to a weary pacing, there was a shout behind, —an Arab yell,—the clatter of scabbards and targets. Down a leafy way charged a squadron of Bedouin light horse, twenty, perhaps, and more. But Rollo and Marchegai had a fair start, well out of arrow range; and the unbelievers soon learned the speed of Frankish steeds. A long race, though not such as that when Iftikhar had led the chase. When at last the Bedouins turned back, their beasts all spent, the knights' mounts too had little strength to spare. Woods were still on every hand, when the two painfully walked beside their horses. As they climbed the slopes of Mount Silpius in the early afternoon, on the last stage to the city, suddenly from beyond a bend in the trees came the pounding of horsemen, fifty at least; and the sound neared fast.
Richard cast a glance at Godfrey.
"My lord," said he, "Rollo is at the end of his speed. We cannot run from fresh horses."
The Duke shook his head when he heard the deep pants of Marchegai. "It is true," he answered. "I think we had best say 'Our Father,' and look to our swords."
But down the forest lane came a clear voice, singing lustily the sweet Languedoc:—
"Merrily under the greenwood flying,Zu, zu, away to my Mirabel!Swift! For my lady waits long,—is sighing!Zu, zu, more speed to my Mirabel!"
"De Valmont's voice, as I hope for heaven!" cried Richard, dropping the bridle. And straight toward them cantered a merry body of cavaliers and men-at-arms, Louis's broad pennon leading.
"Ahois!Forward! Infidels!" thundered the Valmonter, couching lance as he saw the two awaiting him. But there was a loud laugh when the two knights were recognized.
"Holy Mass!" swore Louis; "and were not you, my Lord Godfrey, on the foray to Urdeh?"
The Duke shook his head, the instinct of a leader once more uppermost.
"I was not," quoth he, curtly, explaining nothing. "And you, De Valmont? What means this party so far from the walls?"
"We rode after Sir Philip of Amiens, who rode with a few knights this way from the city this morning, and has not returned. We fear they met Arabs. It is rumored the Prince Kerbogha is as near as Afrin, and advancing!"
"By the Holy Trinity, heisadvancing!" shouted the Duke, mounting with a leap. "Leave Philip of Amiens to God; he is long since passed from your aid. Back to the city with speed, if you wish not for martyrdom."
And wearied though Marchegai was, Godfrey made him outpace all the rest as they raced toward Antioch. Richard saw the Christian banners on the walls as he drew near. Once inside the gates he needed nothing to tell him the city had been sacked in a way that bred slight glory to the soldiers of the Cross. He left Godfrey to rouse the chiefs, and to spread the dread tidings of Kerbogha's approach. His own St. Julieners he found in the house of a Moslem merchant they had unceremoniously slaughtered. They were so drunken that only Herbert and Sebastian were able to receive him. A gloomy tale they gave him—the city stormed, then a massacre of the Antiochers,—Christian and Moslem alike,—so terrible that even the fiends must have trembled to find mortal spirits more bloody than they. After the orgy of killing had come days of unholy revellings, drunkenness, and deeds no pen may tell. To crown all, the provisions found in the city had been so wasted, that starvation was close at hand. Richard in his turn told how it had prospered with him at Aleppo. Sebastian sighed when he heard of Mary in the custody of Musa.
"Can honey come out of wormwood?" cried he. "God may allow this infidel to serve Christians in their peril; yet even then with danger to the soul. Ah, dear son, either you must break this friendship with the Spaniard of your own will, or rest assured God will break it for you. Doubt not—light and darkness cannot lie on the same pillow; neither can you serve God and this Mammon whose name is Musa."
"Father," said Richard, "had you stood as I and Musa did, both in the presence of death, you would not speak thus."
But the answer was unflinching.
"I declare that had you both died, your soul would have gone to heaven, or purgatory, and his to the nethermost hell, to lie bound forever with the false prophet and rebel angels."
Richard's thoughts were very dark after Sebastian's words. Was there a great gulf sundering him eternally from the Spaniard? But soon he had little time for brooding on puzzles for the churchmen. The walls had barely been manned on Duke Godfrey's orders, and the foraying parties called in, before the hosts of Kerbogha swarmed down the valley, seemingly numberless. The Moslem garrison of the citadel made desperate sallies. On the day following Richard's return the party led by the gallant Roger de Barnville was cut to pieces before the walls. Each day the bread-loaves grew dearer and smaller. There was ceaseless fighting by sunlight and starlight. Each day the taunts of the Arabs were flung in the Crusaders' teeth, "Franks, you are well on the way to Jerusalem!" Truly the besiegers were become the besieged. As the days crept by the Christians were few who did not expect to view the Holy City in heaven before the Holy City on earth.
On Saturday, the fifth day of June, in the Year of Grace one thousand and ninety-eight, Kerbogha appeared before Antioch with a countless host. On the Saturday following a small loaf of bread sold among the Christians for a gold byzant; an egg was worth six deniers; a pound of silver was none too much for the head of a horse. Men who had endured bitter sieges in the home-land, who had marched across the parching deserts of Isauria without a groan, now at last began to confess their sins to the priest, and to prepare to die. For help seemed possible from none save God—and God was visibly angry with His servants for the blood and passion at the city's sack.
On the day after his entrance, Richard Longsword showed three red shields on the minaret, and after a little, to his unspeakable joy, there were three lances with red pennons set close together before the Gate of St. George. Mary and Musa were safe in the camp of Kerbogha, and Richard blessed St. Michael and our Lady ever Virgin. Yet for a while he was angry with Heaven. If he had entered the city so easily, might not Mary have come in at his side? What need of parting? But he did not keep these feelings long; and his thankfulness was deep when he knew that at least his wife was not seeing gallant seigneurs, even the very Count of Flanders, begging in the city streets for a bit of bread, nor was herself enduring the awful hunger.
For the famine was the last stroke of the wrath of God upon His unworthy people. Thousands had died when the first hordes, led by Peter the Hermit and Walter Lackpenny, had been cut off by Kilidge Arslan; thousands more at Dorylæum; tens of thousands when they tracked the desert and besieged Antioch. But this was the crowning agony. When the news came that Kerbogha was approaching, the princes had indeed done what they could. Messengers had rushed down to the coast to bring up provisions landed by the friendly Italian merchants; foraging parties had been sent to sweep the country. But nine months long Syria had been harried by the armies. In a few days all the Christians were face to face with starvation. Pleasanter far to spend their last strength in the daily battles with Kerbogha, who ever pressed nearer, than to endure the slow agony in the city. Yet the infidels won success upon success. The Moslem garrison of the castle made continual sorties; the outlying forts of the Christians were defended gallantly, but in vain. Each day drifted into the starving city some tale of the pride and confidence of Kerbogha—how when squalid Frankish prisoners were haled before him, hisatabegshad roared at his jest, "Are these shrunken-limbed creatures the men who chatter of taking Jerusalem?" and how he had written to the arch-sultan: "Eat, drink, be merry! The Franks are in my clutch. The wolf is less terrible than he boasted!"
In the city the cry again was, "God wills it!" But the meaning was, "God wills we should all perish or become slaves;" and on every hand was dumb lethargy or mad blasphemy.
New misfortunes trod upon old. In a sortie Bohemond the crafty and brave was wounded; Tancred's and Godfrey's valor ended in repulse. The foe pressed closer, damming the last tiny stream of provisions that trickled into the doomed city. Boiled grass, roots, leaves, leathern shields, and shoes; the corpses of slain Saracens—the Franks had come even to this! Richard feasted with Duke Godfrey on a morsel from a starved camel. The good Duke sacrificed his last war-horse except Marchegai, and then the lord of Lorraine was more pinched for food than the meanest villain on his distant lands. As day passed into day despair became deeper. Many, once among the bravest, strove to flee in the darkness down to the port of St. Simeon and escape by sea. Many went boldly to the Moslem camp, and confessed Islam in return for a bit of bread. "Rope-dancers," howled the survivors, of those who by night lowered themselves from the walls. And Bishop Adhemar talked of the fate of Judas Iscariot. But still desertions continued, from the great counts of Blois and of Melun down to the humblest.
One day Richard was cut to the quick by having Prince Tancred, who kept the walls, send him under guard one of his own St. Julien men, who had been caught while trying to desert. Richard had prided himself on the loyalty of his band, and his fury was unbounded.
"Ho! Herbert, rig a noose and gibbet. Turn the rascal off as soon as Sebastian has shriven him!" rang his command.
To his surprise a murmur burst from the men-at-arms about, and he surveyed them angrily.
"What is this, my men? Here is a foul traitor to his seigneur and his God! Shall he not die?"
Then a veteran man-at-arms came forward and kissed Richard's feet.
"Lord, we have served in the holy war leal and true. But it is plain to all men that God does not wish us to set eyes on Jerusalem! We have parents and wives and children in dear France. We have done all that good warriors may, now let us go back together. To-night lead us yourself along the river road, and let us escape to the port of St. Simeon."
No thundercloud was blacker than Richard Longsword's face when he answered, hardly keeping self-mastery:—
"And does this fellow speak for you all?"
"For all, lord," cried many voices. "Did you not promise to bring us home in safety, to lead us back safe and sound to Nicole, and Berta, and Aleïs? Surely we did not take the cross to die here, as starving dogs. Let us die with our good swords in our hands as becomes Christians, or in our beds, if God wills."
Richard had drawn out Trenchefer, and swept the great blade round. "My good vassals," he said in the lordly fashion he could put on so well, "you know your seigneur. Know that he is a man who has thus far gone share and share to the last crumb with his people, and will. Does not my belly pinch? do not I live without bread? But I say this: this man shall die and so shall every other die a felon's death who turns craven, or I am no Richard, Baron de St. Julien, whose word is never to be set at naught."
There was a long silence among all the company that stood in the broad court of the Antioch house. They knew well that Richard never made a threat in vain. They did not know how great was the pain in the heart of their seigneur. There was silence while the body of the deserter was launched into eternity.
"Amen! Even so perish all who deny their Lord!" declared Sebastian. Richard's heart was very dark when he visited Rollo that day. Thus far, by great shifts, he had secured forage. All the other St. Julien beasts had perished; men muttered at Longsword for sparing the horse. But after that ride from Aleppo he would sooner have butchered Herbert.
But was this to be the end of the Crusade? of the outpouring of the Holy Spirit at Clermont? of the agony of the march? Better if all had ended with the bowstring at Aleppo. No, not better; for Mary was saved.
A gloomy council came that afternoon at the Patriarch's palace, under Godfrey's presidency; no hope—the Greek Emperor they had awaited was reported retreating! The iron men at the council groaned. Guy, brother of Bohemond, cried out against God Himself.
"Where is Thy Power, now, Lord God?" rang his despairing blasphemy. "If Thou art all-powerful, why dost Thou let these things be? Are we not Thy soldiers, and Thy children? Where is the father or the king who would suffer his own to perish when he has power to save? If now Thou forsakest Thy champions, who will henceforth fight for Thee?"
"Peace!" interrupted Bishop Adhemar; "is not God angry with us enough already? Will you rouse Him further by your blasphemies?" And Guy retorted madly:—
"Angry,Sanctissime?Look on our faces, my lord bishop. Do they look as if we had feasted? There are mothers lying dead in the street this moment, with babes sucking at their milkless breasts. I say we have nothing more to fear from God. He has shown us His final anger; mercy, indeed, if with one great clap He could strike us all dead and end the agony. What is to be done, if not to die, one and all, cursing the day we put the cross upon our breasts?" And the speaker almost plucked the red emblem from his shoulder. Adhemar did not reply, and Raymond of Toulouse asked very gravely, turning to Godfrey:—
"Have you sent the heralds to Kerbogha, as the council agreed, offering to yield the city and return home, on sole condition that our baggage be left to us?"
Godfrey's face was even darker than before when he replied: "Yes, Lord Count; there is no need of many words, nor to examine the heralds. Kerbogha will listen to only one surrender—submission at discretion—after which he will decide which of us he will hale away into slavery, which put to death."
The Norman Duke and Gaston of Béarn had risen together.
"Fair princes," cried the latter, "we are at our wits' end. There will soon be no strength left in a man of us to strike a blow, and the Moslems will take us with bare hands. Dishonor to desert, and we will never separate. Yet let us bow to God's will. His favor is not with the Crusade. Let us cut our way down to the port, and escape as many as can."
"And so say I," called Duke Robert. "And I," came from Hugh of Vermandois. "And I," shouted many of the lesser barons. But Tancred, bravest of the brave, stood up with flashing eyes. "I speak for myself. I reproach no man, seigneur or villain. But while sixty companions remain by me, of whatever degree, I will trust God, and keep my face toward His city!"
"There spoke a true lover of Christ," cried Adhemar, his honest eyes beaming; and Godfrey's haggard face brightened a little. "You are a gallant knight, my Lord Prince," said he. "These others will think differently when they have slept on their words. Better starve here than return to France, if return we can. We have asked Kerbogha's terms—we have them. 'The tender mercies of the wicked are cruel,' as says Holy Writ. How can we return with all the paynim nations jeering at us, crying, 'See! See the boasted Frankish valor!' We can do no more to-day; let us meet again to-morrow."
"To-morrow we shall be yet hungrier," muttered Guy of Tarentum, as he went out at Longsword's side. "Except a miracle come of God, Kerbogha has us." "Except a miracle!" repeated Adhemar. Richard carried home the words. Had God turned away His face from His children? Were the brave days when the Red Sea swallowed Pharaoh's myriads, when four lepers delivered starving Samaria from the Syrian hosts but asjongleurs'tales of things long gone by? He told Sebastian what had passed among the chieftains, and Sebastian only answered with a wandering gaze toward heaven.
"These are the days of God's wrath! Now appears the host foretold in the Apocalypse—the four angels loosed from the river Euphrates, come forth with their army of horsemen, two hundred thousand, and for an hour, and a day, and a month, and a year, shall they slay the third part of mankind."
"Father," said Richard, "do you know what the princes say? 'Except a miracle, we are delivered to Kerbogha.' Are the days of God's mercy spent? Were the Jews more righteous than we, that they should be saved by wonders from heaven, and we perish like oxen? I speak not for my own sake—though the saints know it is hard to keep a stout heart over a nipping belly—but for my men, for the whole host. Pestilence is treading behind the famine. This day five thousand have died in Antioch—cursing the hour they took the cross and the God who led them forth. I say again: How can these things be—God sit silent in yonder blue heaven, and still be good?"
Sebastian brushed his bony hand across his face as though driving away a mist, and ran on wildly:—
"Kerbogha is the beast foretold in the beginning! The beast and the false prophet, which is Mohammed, have deceived those who have the mark of the beast; and all such with those that have worshipped his image shall share with the beast and the false prophet in the lake of fire, burning with brimstone."
"Yes, dear father," said Richard, simply; "but the vengeance of God is long delayed!"
Sebastian gave no answer. All that afternoon he went among the dying, who lay like dogs in the streets, holding up the crucifix, telling them of the martyrs' joys; that death by sickness and famine was no less a sacrifice to God than death by the sword.
"Fear not, beloved," were his words to those whose last speech was of home and longed-for faces, "you are going to a fair and pleasant country, very like dear France, only brighter and richer than France, if that may be. There, as far as you can see, is a plain of soft green grass, and the sky is always blue; and there is a lovely grove with whispering trees laden with fruit of gold; and the fountain of 'life and love' sparkling with a thousand jets, and from it flows a river broader and fairer than any in the South Country. Here all day long you will dance with the angels, clothed in bleaunts of red and green, and crowned with flowers as at a great tourney; and all your friends will come to you; there shall be love and no parting, health and no sickness; nor fear, nor war, nor labor, nor death; and God the Father will smile on you from His golden throne, and God the Son will be your dear companion."
So many a poor sufferer flickered out with a smile on his wan lips at Sebastian's words, while he thought he was catching visions of the heavenly country, though there was only before his dying eyes the memory of a sunny vineyard or green-bowered castle beside the stately Rhone or the circling Loire.
Thus Sebastian spent his day. But Richard heard him repeat many times—"A miracle! except we be saved by a miracle!" And toward evening the Norman saw his chaplain deep in talk with the half-witted priest, Peter Barthelmy, and another Provençal priest named Stephen.
Count Raymond sat at the end of the day in his tent before the castle, and facing him was Bishop Adhemar. There was no hope, no courage, left in the army at the close of that gloomy day. Bohemond had had to fire his followers' barracks to drive them forth to fight on the walls. When the alarm trumpets sounded an attack, men only muttered, "Better die by the sword than by a month-long death of starving." Gloomy had been the dialogue, and at last the Count asked:—
"Dear father, have masses been duly said, and prayers offered Our Lady that she will plead with Christ for His people?"
And Adhemar answered: "Prayer day and night. All night long I and the Bishop of Orange lay outstretched after the form of the cross, beseeching Our Lord. The cry rises to heaven unceasingly. But God remembers all our sins; there is no sign save of wrath."
And the good Bishop was stirred when he saw a tear on the bronzed cheek of the great Count of the South. "I must go among the men," said Raymond; "the saints know I can say little to hearten."
But he was halted by his worthy chaplain, Raymond of Agiles, now grave and consequential. "My Lord Count, and you, your Episcopal Grace," began he, importantly, "there has been a notable mercy vouchsafed this poor army,—a miracle,—a message sent down from very Heaven!"
"Miracle? Miracle of mercy?" cried the Count, banging his scabbard. "These are strange words, my good clerk; we have none such to hope for now!"
"Beware," interposed Adhemar, warningly, for he saw that the chaplain was flushed and excited. "When men's bodies are weak, the devil finds his darts lodge easily. Beware, lest Satan has cast over your eyes a mist, and held out false hopes."
But the chaplain would not be denied.
"Noble lords," quoth he, boldly, "here is a man who declares to me, 'St. Andrew has appeared in a dream, saying, "You shall find the Holy Lance that pierced our dear Lord's side, and by this talisman overcome the unbelievers!"' Will you not hear his tale?"
"And who is this fellow?" urged Adhemar.
"Who, save the unlettered and humble priest, Peter Barthelmy, whom your Episcopal Grace knows well."
Adhemar shook his head hopelessly. "There can be no help in Peter Barthelmy. There are in the host ten thousand saintlier than he, and wiser, and no vision has come to them."
"Yes, my Lord Bishop," cried the chaplain, eagerly; "but is it not written, 'Thou hast hid these things from the wise and prudent, and revealed them unto babes?' Cannot God, who made the dumb ass speak, and who appeared unto the child Samuel and not to the wise Eli, make His instrument the untaught clerk Peter of Marseilles?"
There was an honest ring in the chaplain's words and a pious faith behind them, that made Bishop Adhemar grow humble and cross himself.
"Mea culpa, Domine," he muttered, "grant that my pride in my own high estate and wisdom should be rebuked by making this unlearned priest indeed Thy instrument of deliverance." Then aloud, "Admit this man; let us question him, and see if he be of God or Satan." So Count Raymond waited, and his chaplain went forth and led in the priest Peter Barthelmy.
A rough-featured, heavy-handed peasant's son was this Peter. He had gone into holy orders, he scarce knew why; his highest hope had been a little village "cure," where he could tell saints' stories to the girls, and baptize the new-born babes, and enjoy a pot of wine on feast-days, and grow old in peace. But men said that he loved to pray, was very humble, also was fond of having long and circumstantial dreams. When he found himself before the great Count of the South, and Adhemar "the Father of the Army," his speech came thickly, and his knees smote together under his cassock. But Adhemar, whose heart was compassion to all save infidels, told him not to fear, if he had a clean conscience, but to tell them boldly; for they would not despise him, even if poor, untaught, and a villain's son. So Peter found his tongue, and his tale ran after this wise:—
During the siege of Antioch, one midnight there had been a great earthquake, and as Peter called to Heaven in his fear, lo, two men in bright garments stood before him in his hut,—one young and more beautiful than any born on earth, the other old, with hairs all gray and white, his beard long and divided, his eyes black, his countenance very terrible, and he bore a transverse cross. Then the elder man had said, "What do you?" And Peter, trembling, answered, "And who are you, good lord?" Then the other replied: "Arise, and fear not. I am Andrew, the Apostle. Gather the Bishop of Puy, and the Count of St. Gilles and Toulouse, and say, 'Why does the Bishop neglect to preach and to warn and to bless the people?'" Then St. Andrew told Peter he would show him the lance with which the pagan centurion, Longinus, pierced the side of Christ, and this lance he must give to Count Raymond, for such was the will of God. So St. Andrew led Peter through the Saracens into Antioch to the Church of St. Peter by the north gate, and opened the ground before the steps of the altar and showed him the lance. And Peter held in his hand the precious metal, with the water and blood still rusted upon it. St. Andrew commanded him to go to the church with twelve men, after the city was taken, and dig, and he should find it. Then the saint replaced the lance, led Peter back to his own hut, and disappeared.
"But why did you conceal this so long?" asked Adhemar; "why did you disobey the Holy Saint?"
"Ah, my Lord Bishop," was the answer, "your Grace sees I am a poor, stammering wretch. Not once, but four times, has the Holy Saint appeared to me, warning and threatening, because I feared to make bold and come before the princes and your Grace with my commission." Then Peter told how he had tried to escape the commands of the saint, and how the saint had pursued him, until his fear of punishment from heaven was greater than his fear of the scoffs of man, and thus he had come to the Count and Adhemar.
When the priest was finished, the Bishop and Count sent him away, and sat for a long time deep in thought; for whether he spoke out of malice, or fancy, or inspiration from above, who might say? The chaplain, Raymond of Agiles, waited without the tent, and received the decision of Adhemar.
"Let him abide until to-morrow. During the night let us pray again earnestly, and see if the night and the morning bring any sign that the wrath of God is turned away."
So the night came, and a thrill went through all the starving city, when it was rumored that the Bishop would go to the Church of St. Peter to offer solemn petition for a sign from God, whether He would vouchsafe a miracle. And as a hundred thousand despairing eyes watched the heavens, about midnight there came a sortie of the Turks from the citadel, and there was fighting in the streets. But, lo! just when the strife was fiercest, and the Christians almost gave way, there was a rushing noise in the upper heavens; Crusaders and Moslem saw a great star of glowing fire rush downward, so that the city and the camps of Kerbogha were lit bright as day. Then the star burst in three pieces over the paynim camp, as if God were raining down fire upon the unbeliever, as upon old Sodom; and for the first time in many weary days the Christians dared to raise their heads, and cry: "God wills it! He will still have mercy!"
The night passed; and in the morning there came the priest Stephen, who went before the princes as they sat in council beneath the castle. And he in turn told a story that made men cross themselves and mutter theirGlorias. For according to Stephen's tale, he had gone to the Church of the Holy Virgin, believing the Turks were broken in, and wishing to die in God's house. But when the foe did not come, and all his companions slept, a young man with a blond beard, the most beautiful form he had ever seen, appeared to him, and a bright cross shone above the head, token that this was Our Lord. Then while Stephen adored, Christ said to him, "I am the God of Battles; tell me the name of the chief of the army." And Stephen replied, "Lord, there is no one chief; but Adhemar is most revered." Whereupon Our Lord answered: "Tell Bishop Adhemar to bid the people return unto me, and I will return unto them. Let the cavaliers invoke my name when they ride into battle. And after five days, if my commands are obeyed, I will have pity on my people." Then at Christ's side appeared a lady, more beautiful than day, who said, "Lord, it is for these folk in Antioch I have made intercession for Thy favor." So Our Lord and His Blessed Mother vanished, and Stephen could hardly wait for the day to tell his story to the army.
Now when the stories of Stephen and Peter Barthelmy had run through the host, it was a marvel surpassing to see how the skies were brightened; and if a man doubted, he stifled his doubts within his breast, as being little less than blasphemy. Richard Longsword in days to come was accustomed to wonder what it was that Sebastian had said to the two priests, when they talked so earnestly together. But he spoke to no man, only gave thanks in silence.
"Let us cast all sin from our hearts," admonished Adhemar in the council; "for it is manifest God will not keep His anger forever." Then all the princes took a great oath to remain faithful to the Holy War; and when the Arabs cried to the sentries on the walls: "Out, Franks, out! Show us the Christian valor!" the reply came boldly now: "Patience, Sons of Perdition! The devil double-heats his fires against your coming!"
So the appointed five days sped, and though many yet died, the very famine seemed easier to bear. Every gaunt Frank whetted his sword, and if prayer and vigil avail aught, or one cry to God from thousands on thousands, it should have availed them. No more blasphemy and scoffings now; only one desire: "The lance! the lance! Then rush against the infidel!"
"Sebastian," said Richard, "do you know, if the lance is not found, the whole host will curse God; perhaps turn infidel for a loaf of bread?"
"I know it," came the solemn answer; "but it is sin to doubt."
"Yes, but I am weak in faith. How great is the power of Kerbogha!"
Sebastian's answer was an uplifted hand.
"Would God I could do as did Elisha to his servant, and open your eyes; for now, as then, the host of the ungodly lie round the city, but behold the mountains are full of horses and chariots of fire to deliver the Lord's elect!"
In the morning the Crusading Chiefs prepared to dig for the Holy Lance. Richard was touched when he left his men, to see how, despite their murmurings, the honest fellows tried to put on a brave face. "Ha, Herbert!" cried De Carnac, "the rats we feasted on last night were better than a St. Julien boar." And the man-at-arms forced the counter-jest, "After so much rat-flesh I shall lose all taste for venison." "Three of our rats," snickered Theroulde, "are better than giant Renoart's dinners—five pasties and five capons all for himself."
But this was strained merriment. Richard at the council found he was appointed to go with Count Raymond, Raymond of Agiles, the Bishop of Orange, Pons de Balazan, Ferrard de Thouars, Sebastian, and five more, to dig for the lance. Bishop Adhemar, good soul, lay ill, but his prayers were with them. The twelve took Peter Barthelmy and went to the Church of the Blessed Peter, a gray stone building, domed after the Eastern manner. When they came to the threshold they knelt and said threePaternostersand aCredo; then the Bishop of Orange blessed their spades and crowbars, sprinkling each implement with holy water. All about the church in the narrow streets stood the people, far as the eye could see—gaunt skeletons, the bronzed skin drawn tight over the bones, the eyes glittering with the fire of dumb agony. When the company entered the church, there went through the multitude a half-audible sigh, as all breathed one prayer together; and many started to follow the twelve, though none cried out or spoke a word. But Count Raymond motioned them back. Then all who were in the church—and like all the churches during the siege, it was crowded with men and women—were bidden to rise from their knees and go away.
Slowly the church was emptied. Then when the last worshipper was gone, the twelve put-to the gates; and all, saving the Count and the Bishop, took a spade or crowbar. Peter Barthelmy led them up to the stairs leading to the high altar, at its south side. Here the priest turned, and pointing to the pavement said, in awestruck whisper, "Here! at this spot the holy saint took the lance from the ground, and laid it back again, in my dream."
"Amen! and amen!" repeated the Bishop. Then all the rest knelt a second time, while he blessed them, making over each the sign of the cross. When they arose, they remained standing until he gave the word. "In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, Amen!"
The pickaxe in the hands of Raymond of Agiles smote first on the pavement. There was a crash, as the mosaic pattern shattered. Then the others bent to their toil. The costly glass and stone work flew out to every side, then the gray cement, then the chill, dark earth, and with all the speed and strength that was theirs the twelve slowly pushed downward.
It was a strange scene. The windows of the church were very small. Over the altar, with its painted and gem-crusted ikons of the saint, twinkled a pair of candles; above the heads of the thirteen, far up against the dark dome, shone a pair of silver lamps, flickering, with a ruddy glare. The shadows hung upon the cold pillars of the old basilica. They saw faint images of painted martyrs and angels peering down from the frieze and vaulting. Every stroke of their tools rang loud, and awakened echoes that died away behind the maze of far-off arches.
Digging and still digging, the earth flew fast under their eager hands. The Count forgot his proud title and broad baronies, caught a spade, and toiled as became a villain bred to the soil. All the time they labored the Bishop chanted psalm after psalm, and the sound of his voice was a double spur to the work, if spur were needed. But after they had labored a great while, and the trench was growing broad and deep, every man began to have a half-confessed sinking of heart. They laid down their tools, searched the great pile of earth that was rising in the aisle; found in it only pebbles and a few bits of broken pottery, but no wonder-working lance!
Yet Peter Barthelmy encouraged them.
"Dear lords and brothers," said he, undauntedly, "do not grieve. Believe me, the Blessed Andrew went far deeper into the earth than have we. You have not dug down yet to the sacred relic."
So, though their arms were growing weary, they fell again to the toil, and the Bishop chanted louder than ever:—
"'In my distress I cried unto the Lord, and He heard me.'"
More and more feverish grew the toil. Richard drove his own spade down, as if very life depended on each stroke, and who might deny it?
"By St. Michael!" was his oath, "we will find the lance, though we dig to Satan and his imps to pluck it up!"
So for a still longer time they wrought, until their hands were sore, arms and backs lame, and still only dark earth and sandy pebbles. When at last they paused for breath, each one looked in his fellow's face, and saw reflected there his own waning hope. But still Peter urged:—
"Be confident, dear friends and lords; deeper yet was the lance when I saw it. Do not distrust the saint!"
They toiled still longer, until by noting the shortening of the candles on the altar they knew that noon was long past, and the day was speeding. None dared utter his doubts. But at last Count Raymond declared that he could stay no more; it was his turn to go and command the fort before the Gate of St. George. Richard could see the anguish on the face of the great lord of the South.
"What shall I say to the people who are waiting without the church?" demanded he of Peter Barthelmy; "they will be plunged in despair when they know we have failed."
"Ah, Lord Count, do not lose faith in the saint! That were mortal sin! Can St. Andrew lie?" replied Peter, between the strokes of his mattock.
"St. Andrew cannot lie, but Provençal priests can," was the Count's menacing retort. "Think well on your sins, my good clerk. If you have been tempted by the devil to deceive us in this—rest assured the people will pluck you in pieces."
"I do not fear," said Peter, steadily, with the stolid resignation of the peasant born.
"You shall be taught to fear," muttered the Count; then to the others, "My Lord Bishop, my other lords, and you good Christians, I say farewell;" and he added bitterly,—"and let God have mercy upon our souls, for we can hope for nothing more on earth."
The Count was gone. And then for the first time, like the howling of a distant gale, they heard a raging and roaring around the basilica, creeping in through the thick walls and tiny windows.
"The multitude grows angry," muttered Pons de Balazan. "They have waited long." Then he went forth, and tried to calm the impatient people, and called in other proper men, to take the places of such of the twelve as had grown weary.
But no man took Richard's place. Not his own life, but the lives of a hundred thousand, shut up in that starving Antioch, hung on their toil. The chance of failure was so frightful, that not even he, whose fingers had learned so well to fight, to whom the life of a man was so small a matter, dared look that future in the face. Had the rest all forsaken, he would have toiled on, spading forth the earth, raising the dark mound higher, ever higher.
And all the company wore grim, set faces now, as they wrestled with their strengthening despair, except Peter Barthelmy and Sebastian. The monk was working with an energy surpassed only by Richard himself. Longsword saw that he was still calm, that the light in his usually terrible eyes was even mild; and as the two stood side by side in the trench, Sebastian said to him: "Why fear, dear son? Are we not in God's hands? Can He do wrong, or bring His own word to naught?"
The Norman answered with an angry gesture:—
"Truly our sins must be greater than we dreamed, to be punished thus—to be promised deliverance, and have Heaven mock us!"
Sebastian's reply was a finger pointed upward to the painted Christ, just behind the two lamps.
"Be not fearful, O ye of little faith!"
Richard fought back the doubts rising in his soul, and flung all his strength anew into his work.
The noise without the church was louder now. They could hear shouts, curses, threats, rising from a thousand throats.
"Deceiver, the devil has led him to blast us with false hopes! Impostor, he dreamed nothing! Out with them; out with them all! The whole company is leagued with Satan! Kill the false dreamer first, then yield to Kerbogha; he can only slay us!"
These and fifty more like shouts were ringing fiercely. Presently there was a crashing and pounding at the gates of the church. "Open, open! There is no lance! Slay the deceiver!"
Richard turned to the Bishop, who in sheer weariness had ceased chanting. "Reverendissime, the people are getting past control. In a moment they will break in on us and commit violence at the very altar; go and reason with them while there is yet time."
"Open! open! Death to Peter the Provençal!"
The roaring had swelled to thunders now. The strong iron-bound gates were yielding under the strokes of mace and battle-axe. Richard flung down his spade, and gripped Trenchefer. He would not defend the deceiving priest; but no unruly men-at-arms should touch a hair of Sebastian, if he also was menaced. But just as the portals began to give way, Peter Barthelmy, stripped of girdle and shoes, his hands empty, and only his shirt on his back, leaped into the deep black pit. Even as the doors flew open, but while the crowd stood awed and hesitant at sight of the dim splendor of the nigh empty church, Raymond of Agiles fell on his knees and prayed loudly:—
"O Lord God of battles and of mercy, have pity on Thy people. Have mercy! Give us the lance, sure token of victory!"
And the moment his words died away, Peter Barthelmy lifted one hand up from the pit—and in his handthe rusted head of a lance!...
Now what followed no man could tell in due order. For afterward Raymond, the chaplain, was sure that he was the first to seize the lance from Peter, and kiss it fervently; and Sebastian and the Bishop and Richard Longsword each claimed the same for themselves. But all the toilers were kneeling ranged behind the Bishop, as he stood in the centre of the great aisle, and upheld the relic in sight of the multitude thrusting its way in.
"Kneel! Thank God with trembling!" rang the words; "for He has had mercy on His army, has remembered His elect! Behold the lance that pierced our Saviour's side!"
And at these words a wondrous sobbing ran through the swelling company; after the sobbing, a strange, terrible laughter, and after the laughter one great shout, that made the dark vaulting echo with thunder.
"Gloria in excelsis Deo! et in terra pax hominibus bonæ voluntatis!" so they sang in the church. But now the tidings had flown on wings unseen to the thousands without, and all the streets were rolling on the greater doxology: "Laudemus te; benedicimus te, adoramus te, glorificamus te; gratias agimus tibi propter magnam gloriam tuam!"
When Richard came out of the church, he was met by a cry from countless voices: "Hail! Richard de St. Julien! You were one who found the Holy Lance! The favor of God and the love of Christ go with you! May you ever prosper. You were one of those who saved us all!"