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God Wills It! A Tale of the First Crusade

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CHAPTER XXVII
HOW THE ARMY CAME TO ANTIOCH

To the surprise and joy of Sebastian and Herbert, Richard recovered from his wounds with miraculous rapidity. When the host marched again, many a voice cheered him. But those who loved him best saw the stony hardness of his face, beyond anything that came after the great stroke at St. Julien. No ragings and thunders now, but a calm and fearful laugh that made men shiver. He led a band of picked knights after the Seljouks, no more reckless cavalier in all the host than he. The Turks had been utterly routed. Two days' marches from the battle Richard found horses ridden dead by their panic-struck masters. Of all the prisoners taken Longsword had only one question, "Whither fled Iftikhar and his band?" But no prisoner could tell—they were only ignorant hordesmen. So Richard rode on, and only God knew what passed in his heart.

The army, now in one huge column, commenced the march across Phrygia, which journey, of all the unforgetable scenes of that Crusade, those who survived it were least likely to forget. Richard remembered the tales told by old Manuel Kurkuas, and laid in what provision he could for his men. Those of his friends who heeded him did likewise. But the multitude—noble and villain, creatures of a day—scarce stuffed their wallets, and went forward, little dreaming of the things in store. For the march was one long horror. Kilidge Arslan had ridden ahead with a band that still remained by him. If he could not stamp out the Christians with his hordes, at least he could make famine and thirst fight against them. He burned harvests; he devastated cities; the wretched inhabitants he hurried into exile,—with Phrygia, Pisidia, Cappadocia, to the gates in Mount Taurus, one desert for the bears and the wolves to hunger in. As the Crusaders advanced, they saw only fields seared and black, roofless houses, with swallows flitting above them; and forth from the caves in the hills crept gaunt, starved wretches, praying for a bit of bread in the name of Our Lord or Allah. The host climbed on the first day the crest of the "Black Mountains," fit presage for the blacker things before; so far as eye could stretch there was utter desolation. And on the next they entered the terrible valley called Malabyumas, and were there many days, hemmed in by precipices and beetling crags, while the great snake of the column dragged its slow length along. At first, while there was yet water on the hillsides and food in the wallets, the host toiled on with only the pitiless summer sun for foe; then, as the little streamlets grew rarer, the dry, dark crags pressed closer, and the food was failing, the misery began. Misery past imagining! for if it is terrible for one mortal to suffer and go out in agony, what is it when hundreds of thousands suffer? when horses and mules are falling like flies by the roadway; when men and women trudge onward like dogs, with their tongues hanging from their mouths; when the sun hangs, from morn till evening, a flaring, coppery ball, bright and merciless, drying up all the sap of life; while against the blue ether show the countless flocks of crows, that whir and caw as they pounce upon the dying ere the breath has sped or the living marched away?

The very hugeness of the host hindered its hasting through this land of torment. One Sunday five hundred persons fell down and perished with thirst, and those who toiled on called them happy; for in heaven one never dreams of cool fields and sweet, cold water, yet all the time is burned within by fire unquenchable. When a tiny stream was reached—what was it among so many? Women fell dying, with their babes sucking at their breasts; and the host pressed on, for help there was none from man!

The horses, poor brutes, died by scores; knights wept when they saw their destrers—often better loved than brothers—sink down; saw their dear falcons and hunting dogs perish. Yet who could think of beasts, where men were staggering with open mouths, gasping for each breath of wind to lighten their burning torments? Still the host pressed on, though, far back as eye might scan, the carcasses and the crows marked out the line of marching.

On and on! and in the midst of the torment there were strange hours of ecstasy, of rapture over visions passing human ken. Men raved of angels and a heavenly city, and streets of gold and living fountains; and the last word of the dying was "Jerusalem!" while the shout that went down the parching host when the sun beat fiercest and all the watercourses were dust, was, "God wills it! Jerusalem!" So the march kept on; and though thousands fell, none turned back, nor would have, had the backward track been of less peril than that before.

Richard bore the privations with a steadiness which made good the opinion of his followers that his frame was built of iron—not of flesh and blood. Yet his heart was cut, as never in this way before, to see his men dying before his face, and he unable to aid. Many a poor Auvergner called to his lord, and bade him tell some mother or wife or sweetheart in far St. Julien that he had struggled hard to gain the Holy City, but God had willed otherwise; and the seigneur would bear witness that he had been a faithful vassal and true Christian.

Rollo, great steed, endured the thirst with a quiet fortitude that let him survive when half the cavaliers of the army were bestriding mules and oxen. Sebastian, too, bore up, shrewdly remarking, as was his way, that his life of fast and abstinence had advantages in this world as well as in the world to come. Herbert, too, seemed unconquerable; but what with the losses at Dorylæum and the thirst, Richard saw his company thinned in a way to make his heart sick, even had this been all.

Finally, one day, when the last watercourse was dried up and death stared all in the face, certain knights saw their dogs slinking into camp, and behold, sand on their coats and mud on paws! Keen eyes tracked them; and, hid behind the bleak mountains, the searchers found a river, broad, still, stately, sweeping through its narrow gorge. Hither rushed all the host, soldier and beast. Had the Seljouks been by then, they could have slain their foes to a man, for the Christians forgot all save water—water!—sweeter, more precious, than spiced wine. They drank till from very surfeit they fell down stricken; and three hundred died, slain by the element of life.

This was the end of the great horror. They found new streams; the parching valleys began to sprinkle with green; they saw once more fields and trees and vineyards. "I, the Lord, will open rivers in high places and fountains in the midst of valleys; I will make the wilderness a pool of water and the dry land springs of water;" so repeated good Bishop Adhemar, the father of the army; and all who heard cried "Amen." And the cry was again, "God wills it! To Jerusalem!" not despairing now, but rejoicing, confident; for after so great a trial to their faith, need the Most High prove them more? Then the march quickened, the jongleurs played merrily, there were jests and tales around the camp-fires; and they began to hope for one more passage-at-arms with the infidel before taking the Holy City—as if Heaven had not saved them once already! Yet there was a tone of sadness in the host, for the line was much shorter now. Where was he who had left no friend on those burning sands or at Dorylæum? Troopers were trudging on foot; extra arms and baggage had been thrown to the wolves long ago; not a man in the army that had not grown a dusty beard. Once when Richard polished his shield so that it shone as a mirror, he saw his face upon it. He scarce knew himself, what with the stiff beard and the fresh scars of the battle, and those lines drawn above the eyes.

"Héh," cried he, forcing a jest to Theroulde, who sat by the tent mending a crossbow, "how would the fair ladies at Palermo who danced with me after the tourney regard me now?"

Theroulde tugged at the hairs on his own chin.

"If we see no razor ere long, fair lord, we may swear by our beards as did Charlemagne, were they but whiter, and, as the song has it, of two hundred years' growth."

"Verily," answered Richard, making shift to keep a merry face, "I think I have lived two hundred years in the past month; and if troubles make white hairs, the saints know I am like to become most venerable."

Theroulde said no more, and Richard, looking into the shield, thought in his heart, "Were Mary to see me now, would she still love me?"

But the answer came, "Though your face were changed black as an Ethiopian's, yet she would love you!" Then the further thought, at which Richard's soul grew black as night: "Should he never—never in this world—set eyes on Mary again? Why had God dealt with him thus? Why should she suffer for his sin,—even if it had not been purged at Clermont?" Each day Richard's face grew more terrible; men feared him and praised his holy zeal against the infidels.

Thus the host came to the pleasant city of Antiochetta. Time would fail to tell of all their later troubles: how Tancred and Baldwin, brother of Godfrey, took Tarsus and quarrelled over its mastery; how Baldwin seized Edessa and founded there a principality; how the great army trudged its weary way across Lycaonia and mounted the rugged steeps of the "Mountain of the Devil." Many a stout man-at-arms died by the way, of sheer weariness; but the host pressed on. "God wills it! To Jerusalem!" was still the cry, and the ranks closed up.

Then leaving Marash and descending Taurus, they met new foes: no more Turks, but bronzed Arabs on roe-limbed steeds, men armed with cimeters of Damascus, and bright with the silks and cottons of Ispahan and Bussorah. Richard was a busy scout-master now, for he and the few other Christians who came from Sicily alone could speak the Arabic, and need not trust to uncertain interpreters. So he rode before the host with his forty knights, no spirit madder than he,—a very St. George when he fell upon the Moslems.

 

When they were close to Artesia on their way to invest Antioch, several Arab riders fell into Richard's hands, and he put to them the inevitable question:—

"Dogs,—can you tell me if Iftikhar Eddauleh, one time emir in Sicily, is in Syria, and where did he part company with Kilidge Arslan?"

And the men answered, all trembling:—

"Mercy, O Cid! Your slaves only know that the Emir Iftikhar is great among the Ismaelians. Report has it that he has now gone to Alamont to see his lord Hassan-Sabah."

"And you know nothing—nothing—" words spoken with awful intensity—"of a certain Christian lady, his captive?"

The men saw he had gladly paid them their weight in gold, if they could have told aught; but they dared not lie.

"Nothing, lord;—we are of the following of Yaghi-Sian of Antioch, and know of the Emir Iftikhar only by name."

"Fiat voluntas Tua," muttered Richard, and he sent the prisoners to the rear to be further questioned by Duke Godfrey. But he was more reckless now in the forays and skirmishes than ever. All men said he was seeking death; and Sebastian gave him warning:—

"Son, you are a chosen warrior of Our Lord. His cause is not served by throwing your life away. Beware lest, in running into peril, you do great sin!"

"Ah, father!" was the response, "what have I left save to slay as many infidels as I can and die! Yet you are right; die I must not, until I have struck down Iftikhar Eddauleh and avenged—" but he did not speak the name.

The next day Richard led his men under the city of Aleppo, and scattered some of the best of the light horse of Redouan, the local emir. But the walls were high. Report had it there was plunder in the palaces without the walls; some of the knights wished to attack. "We fight for Christ, not for gold and jewels!" said Richard, sternly, and led away.

And now they were in Syria. Before them lay a rolling green country, fairer than Sicily even,—a deeper blue, a brighter sun, than in Provence. The warm wind bore to them the sniff of the sand-dunes, spiced groves, and genii's islands far to southward. They trod a strange soil, strange flowers underfoot, strange birds in the air, strange leaves on the trees. All the sunshine, however, did not brighten Richard Longsword. Gone! Parents, brother, sister,—ah, God! wife also, and only knightly honor and revenge left. Let him slay Iftikhar and see the cross above Jerusalem, and then! but he fought back the black thoughts, as he had many a time before. Day and night he rode at the head of his men, who whispered his bones were steel, he was so tireless.

Then the host drew close to the great city of Antioch, the first Moslem stronghold to resist since the fall of Nicæa. And noble adventure awaited when the Norman Duke led the van to force the "Iron Bridge" which spanned the Orontes, key to the northern approach of the city. Long and stoutly did Yaghi-Sian's horse-archers and infantry dispute the passage, but Robert's mad knights swept all before them.

"With an hundred and thirty knights Roger won all Sicily at Ceramis!" cried the valorous Duke. "Shall we fail now with St. Michael and Our Lady to aid?"

So forward it was; and the Saracens heard the great "God wills it!" rolling down the Christian line,—that battle-cry which made the fight blaze tenfold fiercer, and which infidels so learned to dread. A great victory, but something better for Richard. In the press he and De Valmont fought side by side; and when a sling-stone laid Louis prone, Longsword had stood above him, covering with his shield, and saved the Auvergner from the tramplings of friend or foe. Then when they cried "Victory!" and the scared infidels raced for their lives to get behind the walls, Richard bore Louis to his own tent; for the Auvergner's was far to the rear.

"Ah, Richard," said De Valmont, when they had pitched after the battle, "you would not have stood above me thus in Sicily."

"No, fair knight," answered Richard, frankly; "but God has seen the sins of us both, and we are rewarded."

"Come," cried the Provençal, firing, for he had a good heart under a haughty shell; "we swore forgiveness at Clermont; let us swear brotherhood, for we know each other now. We both are valiant men; we two fought with honor at least, though to my cost,—shall we not be as strong in friendship as in hate?"

So Richard took the Auvergner's hand, and gave him the kiss, not of peace, but of brotherhood. And when Sebastian, coming by, saw them, he smiled:—

"You do well, dear sons, for two friends have the strength of four apart, and true affection is of God!"

As soon as Louis was well enough to ride once more, the twain were ever together. And the companionship of Louis was an unspeakable boon; for to one whom he held his equal, De Valmont was a frank, open-hearted, merry-tongued fellow, the very comrade to chase off the imps of gloom that had of late encamped round Longsword's soul. But as they scoured the country, bringing in forage and seeking news of the enemy, Richard always had the same question for any prisoners:—

"Do you know aught of the Emir Iftikhar Eddauleh?" And when they told him no, he was most likely to give a nod to Herbert, which meant that the captives' heads were forfeit. Louis pitied him from the bottom of his soul.

"Dear friend," said the Provençal once, when they waited without Duke Godfrey's tent to report a skirmish, "you let this loss of Mary Kurkuas eat your heart away. Believe me, I loved her once as much as you, and yet—" here he laughed at memory of his own discomfiture—"I am still a very merry man. Are you angry?" Richard shook his head. "Then hear me out. Your Greek beauty was a very fée, as Roland's Aude. But hers are not the only bright eyes and red cheeks in the world. Cannot the Lord of St. Julien have the best and the fairest?—in Sicily, in France, in Syria? Mark what I have done,—my heiress in Toulouse could hold her head beside the Greek, and no shame to either. Say to yourself, 'The saints are unkind; I will not let them make me pout forever. Another cast of the dice, and better fortune—'" But here he stopped, for on the face of Richard was, not indeed rage, but a darkening of passion that Louis knew he had scarce dreamed of. And Richard answered very gently:—

"Sweet knight, we have sworn brotherhood; I know you speak out of the goodness of your heart. When you say, 'Once I loved Mary Kurkuas as much as you,' and then boast your happiness, and add that she is not alone fair, you show but this,—you loved her eyes and her hair, but not her true self, as do I. As for what more you say, I only answer thus: I have sworn that henceforth I will look in love on no woman, if not on her, but will fight as best I can for God and Holy Church, and trust that after the sacred city is taken Our Lord will admit me into His peace. Till then let me be a good friend, and as merry as I may."

While he spoke, the tent doors flapped aside, and Duke Godfrey himself strode forth. There was strength and joy by merely glancing into the eyes of that noble man. He put his hand on the shoulder of Richard, and said as a father to his son: "Richard de St. Julien, fear not that God is unmindful of your sorrow and prayers. We all, who love and honor you, have shared your grief, and He who loves you more than we, must share the most. Be strong, and either He will give you the desire of your heart, or you shall enter into the peace no mortal man may know." There was a ring and sweetness in the words of the mighty Duke which no priest could fuse into his speech, for Richard knew that Godfrey himself had walked through the moil and toil of life, and was crowned already victor.

"I will trust in God!" he said, when he left the Duke.

At his tent he sat a long time with Louis over some rare wine they had taken that day; called for a backgammon board, and played against Louis, winning seven games running. Herbert, who was standing by, was glad when he heard his lord give a hearty, unforced laugh—not of the fearful kind which had been his custom before. When Richard prayed that night, he put forth a new petition: "Master, if I have been chastened sufficiently, and it is Thy will, grant that I may see Musa once more, for next to one whom clearly Thou willest I should not possess, I desire him beyond all the world."

And this prayer he repeated night after night. Louis de Valmont was grown a dear friend,—but the Spaniard! Richard never dreamed of making the Auvergner a rival. "Musa! Musa!" The longing to see him was too deep for words.

CHAPTER XXVIII
HOW RICHARD REGAINED HIS BROTHER

When the Christians sat down before Antioch in the autumn time, the delights of the country—the abundance of provisions and drink, the dark eyes of the sinful Syrian maids who swarmed to the camp—made the Franks intent on everything save warfare. The massy walls mocked all storming; and though Bohemond blockaded from the east by the Gate of St. Paul, Count Hugh on the north, and Godfrey and Raymond on the northeast, the south was open to every wind, and provisions entered the city freely. Much ado had Richard to keep discipline amongst his own men. "My merry masters," said he once, when even De Carnac clamored for a carouse over some skins of heady Laodicean, "whether we see the heavenly or the earthly Jerusalem, let us see it with pure hearts and pure bodies." And with Trenchefer he slit all the wine-skins. So that night, at least, the St. Julieners kept sober.

But the tide soon turned. A miserable winter it was; chill rains; the ill-placed camps swimming in water. Swords rusted in a night. There was hardly an hour when the heavens did not pour down their floods, until scarce a dry back was in the army. And as the floods continued, the provisions, once squandered so recklessly, began to fail. Longsword rode forth with Bohemond and Robert the Norman to sweep the country, and too often met only roving Saracen horse, who gave them hard blows and little booty. Then at last came the inevitable pursuer,—pestilence! and men began to die by scores; their faith all gone, cursing God and the saints, and the folly that drove them from lovely France on a fool's own errand. Evil tidings came in daily. Sweno the Dane, it was told, who was leading fifteen hundred horsemen across Cappadocia, had been overwhelmed by the Seljouks. And other ill news flowed fast as the rain torrents. Even the stoutest began to think more for their own lives than for ever seeing the Holy City. Some fled to Baldwin at Edessa; others to Cilicia. Duke Robert went to Laodicea, and only returned when admonished thrice in the name of Our Lord. William de Melun, the mightiest battle-axe in the whole army, fled away,—the infidels he did not fear, but who was proof against famine?

Yet many did not falter; Tancred did not, nor Count Raymond, nor Godfrey who, before all others, was the reproachless warrior of his Lord. Bishop Adhemar thundered against the vice in the camp, holding up the fate of Babylon and of pagan Rome, mother of harlots. Stern measures were taken against sins of the flesh. Blasphemers were branded with a hot iron. When some of Yaghi-Sian's spies were taken, Bohemond had them butchered and cooked, to spread the tale in Antioch that the Christians ate their captives, and that those who came after be discouraged.

But when Peter the Hermit took flight by stealth, the whole army raged in despair.

"If he flee, whom may we trust? Sooner expect a star fall from heaven!" was the cry. Tancred pursued after and brought him back. "Father," quoth the Prince, "do you well to lead Christians into a strait like this,—then valorously depart?"

"Alas!" moaned the one-time prophet, "the flesh is weak, though the spirit willing! Would I had never preached the Crusade! When I see the sins of the army, I fear lest I am 'that Egyptian,' as St. Paul was accused, 'who led forth into the wilderness four thousand men that were murderers.'"

"Hark you, father," cried the Prince, with a bitter laugh. "I am a warrior and no churchman; but I think it shame for knight or villain to call the devil above ground, and then cry because he has a sting in his tail! Back you shall go, will you, nill you; and let us have no more long chatterings about the sinful sloth of the warriors of France until the praters themselves rule their lives by their own gospel."

So they fetched Peter again to Antioch. Before all the army he swore an oath on the Scriptures that he would never desert. And to his honor be it said, this lapse was his last. In the after days he won yet more glory and confidence, despite this showing of human frailty.

 

Thus the winter wasted. With the spring came better food and more fighting. Richard had kept his men in moderate health and spirits; first by his iron discipline, second because he remembered a hint given by Manuel Kurkuas on Eastern campaigning, and had pitched his tents on a plot that was sheltered by a hill from the malarial winds of the lowlands. Now rumors began to come into camp that great preparations were making among the Moslems for sending a huge host to the relief of Antioch. As the sun smiled warmer, the hearts of the Crusaders lightened. Their camp beside the green-bowered Orontes was a noble sight,—one sea of pennons and bright pavilions,—and all about a wide moat and a palisade. The knights rode in their tourneys, and tinkled their lutes in praise of some maiden in far and pleasant France. But still Yaghi-Sian made Antioch good, and Jerusalem seemed very far away.

Richard told himself that even Mary would not know him now,—what with the thinness of his cheeks and his beard that almost brushed his breast. The first bitterness of his loss was beginning to pass. Mary had doubtless become wise, and submitted to her lot. Iftikhar, he knew, would give her every sensuous delight. He prayed that she might learn to be reconciled. As for himself, there was much work to do. Men honored his great sword. Though his seigneury was small, the greater lords called him to their council, because he spoke the infidels' tongue, because his heart was in the Crusade and not in worldly advantage; above all, because in him they saw a born leader. He was still the reckless and headlong cavalier whose squadrons could scarce keep Rollo in sight when their chief was in the saddle.

"Beware, De St. Julien," said Godfrey, one day, while it was arranged that Richard should lead a picked band of forty down toward the port of St. Simeon to cut off some Arab skirmishers. "Life is not to be thrown down like a cast of dice. Remember Oliver's warning in the tale:—

 
"'Valor and madness are scarce allied;
Better discretion than daring pride.'"
 

"True," answered Richard, smiling, while his eye wandered vacantly over the fine-wrought "life of Moses" pictured on the tapestries lining the good Duke's tent. "But were I struck dead as I stand, who would feel a pang? My old watch-dogs, Herbert and Sebastian, Theroulde the minstrel, Rollo, my horse—who more, my Lord Duke?"

Godfrey touched the young knight's hair gently when he answered: "Fair son,—for so I will call you, if you take no offence,—all are put in this world for some great and glorious work,—and to us especially is granted the task of wresting Christ's own city from the unbelievers. You would not shun your task. Is it not as wrong to fling life away as to turn the back on the foe in fair battle? And if aught befell you, say not that none would mourn. Believe me, we all love and honor you; for we see that in your heart burns a rare and mighty love for Christ, and your fall were a grievous loss."

"You say well, my lord," said Richard, bowing; "and were I to fall, men would mourn 'another stout swordsman and good lance gone'; for I am honored for my strong arm. But that might be cut off, yet I were still Richard Longsword; then who would care if I died a thousand deaths!"

"As Our Lord lives, not so bitterly!" remonstrated the good Duke. But Richard only replied as he went out, "I thank your kindness; but if I meet the infidels to-day, let the saints judge between us, and we shall have a noble battle!"

"By Our Lady," swore Godfrey, when Richard departed, "I have great sorrow for that lad; for lad he is, yet with so old a face!"

And Bishop Adhemar, who had stood by after the council broke up, replied: "And I too am torn for him. For his sorrow is beyond human comfort. Alas! poor baroness! I met her often on the march. May she and he alike learn to bow to the will of God!" But Richard had flown back amongst his men, and called loudly, "To horse!"

"Laus Deo! Gloria! Gloria!" he shouted to Herbert; "as you love me, saddle with speed. Scouts bring in that a squad of the emir of Emessa's cavalry lurk around the port. I ride to cut them off."

"Horse and away, then!" bawled the man-at-arms. "Yet why so merry?" And Richard answered, laughing:—

"I know not, dear fellow; yet I feel as if some angel had said to me, 'Richard Longsword, some great joy to-day awaits!'"

"And what joy?"

"By St. Maurice, I know not, and care less; most likely I shall slay twenty infidels, and be slain by the twenty-first!"

"The saints forbid!"

"The saints forbid nothing. I have said in my heart, 'Ill-fortune, enough of you! Begone!'" And the others marvelled at Longsword's merry mood. "Forward, and St. Michael with us!" his command. "Forward! forward!" came from all the rest, for they sniffed adventure when Richard Longsword led.

Richard gave Rollo a little tap on the flank, that sent the huge brute racing better than any spur, and they plunged away at a brisk gallop.

Very fair that spring day. Underfoot the wild flowers were springing; the turf had a fresh green, and all the silver poplars and oaks were putting on young leaves. When the troop watered their steeds by a tinkling brook, they saw the water strewn with scattered apple blossoms. Everything was sweet, balmy, and kind. Who under such a sun could keep sad, and grimace at God and His world? Not Richard Longsword. He broke into a gay battle-song of Theroulde's; then the others took it up, and they made the myrtles and oleanders quiver with their chorus as they rode along.

"Surely the saints are with us this day!" cried Richard, when the last catch died on the air. They were skirting the Orontes, now hidden by the trees, now riding by its bright current, and watching the swans spread their white sails to the soft east wind. But Longsword had not forgotten the more serious duty that called him afield.

"You, De Carnac, and two more, dismount. Walk to the crest of this hillock, and get a long sweep of the valley," was his order.

Presently the three came back with tidings that there was a company of horsemen, Saracens presumably, camped in the meadow just beyond a little terebinth grove.

Richard drew up his men with the promptness born of a score of like encounters.

"God wills it! At them!" such his shout. And the forty, all as one, swept from their covert over the grassy savannah—were round the grove and upon the infidels before one could count an hundred. Easy victory; for the Moslems, perhaps three score, had many of their horses picketed, and were preparing a meal. The false Prophet had beguiled them into setting no sentry.

"Strike! Strike!" the Christians were riding them down in a twinkling; a dozen were crushed before they could rise from the ground; others drew, and made some slight defence; more stood dazed, and while calling on Allah were made prisoners. Richard was reining in Rollo, and growling that he had not struck a single fair blow, when a cry from Herbert startled him.

"By the Mass! Look! Hossein, as I am a sinner!"

And Richard saw before his eyes a white-robed, catlike Arab, swinging upon a picketed chestnut charger. No need to glance twice to know the traitor—Longsword could have singled his face from ten thousand. But as he gazed a flash of the Arab's dagger had cut the lariat;—a whistle to the high-bred desert steed, and the splendid creature shot away, fleet as a startled hart.

"For the love of God, shoot down the horse!" thundered Richard, making Rollo leap under the spur. Herbert levelled, and sent a crossbow bolt. Too hasty,—long range, and he missed. And every twinkling was making the distance grow long between the rider in the white dress and the Christians.