"Chase! Ride!" rang Longsword's command. "A hundred byzants to take him alive!" But Rollo himself was soon heading all the forty. Never had Richard ridden as now, never had Rollo felt the spur so deep; but the speed of Borak, steed of the lightning, was in the mount of Hossein. Seldom had Rollo so nearly met his match. Almost before one dreamt it, the forty were specks in the rear.
"Faster, faster, dear Rollo!" urged Richard, for his voice was ever the keenest spur to the great brute. And Rollo indeed ran faster, but the desert steed faster too; and for a long time the distance between neither waxed nor waned. Grove, thicket, gully, fallen log (for their way lay along none the most beaten road), the kind Powers led them past, when a stumble would have dashed rider and steed to certain death. Richard pressed Rollo again, and the huge horse putting forth all his powers began slowly as a snail, yet steadily, to gain on the Arabian. For some moments they raced thus; then the road became clearer, shut in on either side by trees that arched down, and slapped their green banners in the riders' faces. Who recked? Already Richard could see Hossein swaying in the saddle, clearly deliberating whether he could slacken to dismount and speed up the hillside. But the Arabian was running for dear life now, and though his rider tugged at the bit, he hardly swerved. Rollo, black monster, was coming up bound upon bound. Richard dropped his lance into rest. He would have Hossein at mercy before one could say three Credos. Was his hand steady enough to pin the Arab through the thigh where flesh was thick, and so take him prisoner? For Hossein's life would be precious—for a while.
"Ah, traitor!" cried Longsword in Arabic, "call on Allah now!"
The only answer was a fresh bound from the chestnut charger, a final burst of speed that carried him ahead for a moment. Then the steady gallop of Rollo told once more—another furlong, and the Ismaelian would face his doom.
"La ilaha ill' Allah!" broke forth from the fugitive; and half involuntarily Richard drew rein, while the prey nigh in his hands flew onward. For lo! in the road directly ahead was a company—horse and foot, in Oriental dress,—advancing rapidly, not a bowshot away! Richard wavered for an instant. He saw a horseman in flashing armor and blood-red turban come pricking toward them. Almost ere the thought could speed through his mind, Hossein was among the newcomers, and a score more came dashing forward to confront the solitary Christian. A glance back—not one of his men in sight! Rollo blown and panting! Escape up the hillside—impossible!—he in armor, and the Moslems nimble as rats!
"God wills it!" Richard's soul cried. "This is the good fortune; to ride down the foe, fight valiantly, die gallantly, and then peace—rest—peace!" He threw down the lance, and drew forth Trenchefer. "The last time you will strike for a Longsword, good friend!" quoth he, with a loving eye on the keen blade, "and you shall not strike in vain!" Then he pressed Rollo once more, "On again, my horse!" And the huge brute caught the hard road under his hoofs and went forward at a headlong pace. Richard could see the leading warrior, a splendid figure on his steed, coming on with drawn cimeter—a noble comrade in death! He would strike him first. And Richard made Trenchefer dance high while he flew.
"God wills it! St. Julien and Mary Kurkuas!"
So the woods rang with his battle-shout. He could see the Moslems, staring half amazed, as he came on headlong, one against their scores; saw bows bend; heard the arrows scream past. The leader he had singled as his prey was dashing down the road to meet him. How fair a combat!
"God wills it! St. Julien and Mary Kurkuas!" Richard gave it as his last battle-cry, and swung Trenchefer to beat through the Moslem's guard; when lo! the strange warrior had dropped cimeter and shield—reined short—and from him, as if by echo, there came: "Mary Kurkuas! Allah akhbar, you are Richard Longsword!" And Richard let Trenchefer clatter in the dust. "Musa! my brother!"
Then, all in armor as they were, they flung their mailed arms about one another for very joy, and cried, shedding great tears, as do only strong men when moved too deep for speech. For a moment the other Moslems, as they swarmed about, were ready to run Richard through, thinking he had taken their chief captive by some magic art. But Musa motioned them aside. When the two again found words, the first question from the Spaniard was, "And how is it with the Star of the Greeks?" But at this, the face of Richard grew dark.
CHAPTER XXIX
HOW IFTIKHAR BORE HOME HIS PRIZE
Iftikhar Eddauleh rode over the dusty road from Turmanin to Aleppo with only thirty about him of the hundred riders that had followed him to Dorylæum. But Zeyneb was at hand, and Eybek, who had gone on the secret mission months before; and beside the grand prior moved a horse-litter containing a treasure Iftikhar would not have parted with had the heads of all his men and his own been at stake. Mary Kurkuas was his. The scene when he took her in the Christian camp had been terrible; how beautiful she had been, standing at bay, dagger in hand—no lioness more dreadful! He had disarmed her without marring one spot on a skin that was soft as the rose-petals. How she had cried and pleaded! He had been cruel? Yes; the poets all sang love was either cruel or sweet; and Iftikhar would be all sweetness now.
As the troops rode past the khan which stands on the Aleppo road, about twelve furlongs' journey beyond the gates, Iftikhar drew up his horse beside the litter, which Zeyneb was carefully guarding. The curtains were closed, but he spoke in his soft, melodious Arabic: "Star of the Greeks, if you will,—look forth! For we are approaching Aleppo, and now you may set eyes on the palace El Halebah, which, by the blessing of Allah, is mine, and therefore yours!"
Mary thrust back the curtains. Her face was very pale now; the red spots on either cheek seemed to glow with hidden fire. But her eyes were dry and bright—the hour of outward agony had been long since passed.
"A beautiful country!" were her words. And it was even so; for, bowered in gardens and framed by a sky of purest azure, lay Aleppo, whose white walls, white houses, gilded minarets seemed stencilled in silhouette against the blue. Crowning the city rose the citadel, high above the proudest domes with its sheer brown rock. On it, too, shone the gold work of its battlements, and its gaudy banners streaming. Iftikhar pointed out the lofty dome of the great mosque Jami-Zakarya, whose minaret seemed to climb to the very bow of the heavens; the stately Jewish synagogue, the domes of the Christian churches, the tall houses of the merchants clustered round the bazaar.
"Beautiful, truly!" said Iftikhar, his eyes not on the stately city, but on the face of the Greek; "fair as the two gardens by the river of milk prepared for the beloved of Allah! Yet you see but the outward husk, O Soul of my Soul! For yours is the palace which Seïf Eddauleh, one-time lord of Aleppo, prepared for a maiden like yourself of the blood of the Greeks; and what was her joy shall be yours as well. See—we are at the gates of El Halebah!"
Mary thrust back the curtains farther, leaned on the cushions of brocade of Tostar, and saw the troop swing down a stately avenue of poplars. Soon the glittering city and dusty highway were hid from view. Between green thickets and leafy arbors she could see the silver stream of the Kuweik creeping silently in its flower-banked bed. Soon the trees were so dense that the sunlight only filtered down a soft haze, and the ground under the horse-hoofs was cool, where the moist leaves had fallen. A strange hush seemed to pervade the wood, and Iftikhar himself, as if awed, rode on in silence. Several minutes thus; and Mary felt a strange thrill, as if a voice had spoken, "You enter now into a magic world!" The horses had fallen to a slow walk. They could hear bird calling bird far within, among the myrtles and laurel hedges. The soft rush of a hidden waterfall crept upon them; one could almost feel the fine spray, yet only heard the plashing music. Presently, as if by enchantment, four men in bright armor, with naked sabres, stood across their way, and a voice rang out, trebly loud in the hush of the wood: "Stand! Who dares set foot within the precincts of El Halebah?" But Iftikhar had ridden in advance of the troops. "By the dirk and the cord!" were his words, when he held up a finger where a gem-stone glittered.
"The grand prior! Hail, master!" And the white turbans of the four almost touched the turf while they saluted. An instant more, and they were gone.
"See!" said Iftikhar, when the seeming apparition had vanished among the trees. "Though El Halebah seem unguarded, save by the owls and bats, I say to you not a snake could wind under the dead leaves, but the eyes of my Ismaelians, keeping watch and ward, would find him. Fear nothing, O Rose of the Christians! About you this hour are three thousand blades, and over them all must a foe ride ere he lay hand on you! You are safe, as though in the bosom of Allah!"
Mary made no reply. The iron had long since entered her soul. Iftikhar was to have his day; the Holy Mother knew it was like to prove a long one. Yet even in her plight the magic wood had a strange charm for the Greek. And at last she asked, "How far about extends the grove of the palace?"
"How far?" answered Iftikhar. "One might wander a league and more to the north, and find naught save glen and fern-dell and fountains. Seïf built it for his fair ones and poets to roam, and think themselves in Allah's paradise. The singer Motenabbi found his words too faint to sing its praise. Now by the will of the Dispenser of All Things it has become the possession of the Ismaelians. Not Redouan, lord of Aleppo, himself dare set foot within the groves, save at nod of mine. Here we may dream we are upon the Fortunate Islands, a thousand leagues away in the Western Sea; and watch the stars go round the pole; and listen to the bulbuls and the brooks singing,—singing ever of revel, and laughter, and love, so long as mortal life may be."
Mary held her peace; Iftikhar, too, fell to day-dreaming. Of a sudden they passed from the wood, and saw before them a wide prairie of emerald grass. Beyond this rose a palace—one wide stretch of domes and pinnacles, and fantastic colonnades, and beyond the palace spread a blue lake, close girded by the forest. In the midst floated a green island covered with gay kiosks. A light skiff, blue as the waters, was shooting across the glassy surface under a steady oar. As Iftikhar's eyes lit upon the rowers in the skiff, he gave a cry:—
"Morgiana!"
"Did you speak to me?" asked Mary.
"No, Soul of my Soul," was the answer. "Yet see the boat; in it glides one whom, Allah granting, you shall love right well! At least"—and now he muttered under his breath—"either you shall love each other, or, as the Most High lives, I know whom I can part with best, and it will not be the Greek!"
And now they were at the portal. The brass-cased doors swung open without warning; a hundred gaudy flags tossed out upon pinnacles and domes; a great crash of music greeted them—trumpet, timbrel, hautboy, and cymbal,—and a line of twenty negro eunuchs, naked save for skirts of red silk whereon gold lace was flashing, each holding a ponderous cimeter. At sight of Iftikhar they knelt and bowed their heads to the mosaic pavement. Then a single eunuch stepped forward, tall, spare, gorgeously dressed in Susangird damask, the jewels gleaming from ears, hands, and shoes; upon his beardless, ebony face a perpetual smile. He also knelt at his lord's feet. And Iftikhar questioned:—
"The messenger I sent ahead from Afrin came promptly?"
"He did, O Fountain of our Being; and all is prepared to receive and make joyous the Star of the Greeks!"
"You have done well, O Hakem!" replied the emir. Then when two of the negroes had lifted Mary from her litter, Iftikhar led her forward. "This, mine own, is my good slave, and yours too, by name Hakem, the chief of my eunuchs and ruler of my harem." Hakem had risen when his lord addressed him, but now at sight of Mary his smile became more blooming than ever, and his violet cap swept her feet as he bowed.
"Hakem," continued his master, "except I command otherwise, the tiniest word of the Star of the Greeks is your law. Deny her, and the stake is ready for your impaling!"
"I hear and obey!" replied Hakem, still smiling, and touching his head, to proclaim his willingness to lose it.
"Go before us to the harem!" Iftikhar went on, and with only the eunuch and Mary Kurkuas, the emir advanced within the palace. Mary saw, as they passed, court after court, fountains, domes, a wealth of jewel-mosaic on floor and wall, glass sconces of rainbow-tints hanging from golden chains. Then in a cool inner apartment where the sun stole dimly through marble tracery in the high ceiling, Iftikhar halted; and as he entered three women, dark-eyed, bronze-skinned, but beautiful as houris, stood—then knelt before Mary.
"Your slaves," said Iftikhar, pointing to them. "Command them; if they fail to please, a word to Hakem, and their lives are snuffed out."
"I thank your kindness, master," said Mary, very softly.
"Master?" exclaimed Iftikhar.
"Assuredly; am I not your slave as much as these women here? Is it not your pleasure, rather than my right, that keeps me from their servile tasks? Does not my very breath tremble on your nod?" And Mary stood before Iftikhar with folded hands, her eyes cast upon the silken rug of Kerman.
The emir broke forth with the heat of glowing fire.
"O Flower, whose beauty shames the rose of Khuzistan! Star, whose light I have followed these years, seeking, hoping, praying, striving! Who the slave, you or I? For your sake have I not sent to the ends of the earth? For you have I not prepared this palace, than which is not a fairer from Andalus to Turan? What is my life without you? What my power among the Ismaelians? My hopes of sovereignty, such as Zubaida, beloved of Harun, might have joy to share! For you,—it is all for you! Without you the palace is dungeon; the earth, wilderness; the fairest of Arabian maidens, jinns of black night."
And in the delirium of the moment he caught her, held her in his arms, kissed her once, twice. But her lips were icy. The touch of her form chilled him. He shrank away as from a statue of marble.
"Master," said Mary, never resisting, "I am your slave. You have the power. I cannot resist; I fear I cannot flee away. You may do with my poor body as you list; but me,—Mary the wife of Richard de St. Julien, the soul throbbing behind this flesh and blood,—me you can never hold in power. No! not, were your three thousand sword-hands myriads. For my true self is as far beyond your unholy touch as though I sat above the stars! Do with me as you will,—I laugh at you; I mock your impure wiles; for till you hold me, soul as well as body, I am free—free in the sight of God, though you pour all your passions on me! I love you not, and never shall, till the day breaks in the west, and the seasons cease to wheel."
As she spoke, her eyes glowed with a fire that lit another fire of mingled desire and rage in the eyes of Iftikhar.
"Hearken, Star of the Greeks!" and he again stepped toward her. Mary stood calm as a statue; only her eyes shone yet brighter.
"I have heard you often, master; but I will listen."
"I command you, style me no more 'master,'" raged Iftikhar, feeling he had conjured up a demon that greater power than his must chain.
"I can style you no otherwise," was the reply; "for so you are. Punish my disobedience. I can bear much."
There was a little table at hand; on it stood a rock-crystal goblet and a silver cooler filled with snow-water and rose sherbet.
"Mary Kurkuas," said Iftikhar, controlling himself by a great effort, and holding up the goblet, "think not I seek the deeds of mad passion and violence. My power? The might that flashes in your eyes were a myriad times more! Love? Yes, truly; I would have your lips seek mine, as two doves flit to the same nest. See! A pledge!—by the great angel Israfil, at whose trumpet the dead shall spring for judgment, I swear: I will do you no hurt! nothing! I will teach you to love me, until Constantinople, and Sicily, and France shall be as a forgotten dream, and of your own free will you shall be mine own, till Allah cut us asunder."
He held high the goblet.
"To Mary Kurkuas, fairest of women!" he cried, drank, bowed low, and was gone, leaving Mary with Hakem the eunuch.
The heavy tapestries in the doorway closed noiselessly. Mary stood gazing half stupidly at Hakem and the maids. Then at last the eunuch spoke, his imperturbable smile swelling to a fulsome grin.
"O my little birdling, what friends shall we not become! How sweetly shall we pass the days together!"
Had his words been hot irons, he could not have affected Mary more. In a trice she had sprung toward him, her eyes flashing flame. She was in poise and voice the great princess of the house of Kurkuas, born to rule. "Toad!" came across her teeth, "did I bid you speak? Out of my sight, you and these wenches, or as I live—"
"Mercy, gracious Citt, gracious mistress!" began Hakem, throwing up his hands and rolling his eyes, for he knew that he faced his match. "You are travel-worn; your dress—"
Mary took a step toward him, snatched him by the shoulder, whirled his face toward the door in an instant.
"Away!" was her command; "or if Iftikhar did not mock me, the next word I have for him is to ask your head!"
Hakem shuffled out of the room like a whipped hound. To the maids Mary gave not a word—simply pointed toward the passage. The flash in her eyes sufficed. They were gone; and the Greek found herself alone—oh, bliss!—alone!
The room was large, high-domed; the walls covered with gold and colored enamel in fantastic arabesques. Here and there an inscription from one of the poets in silver mosaic. On the silken carpet the feet moved noiselessly. The light trickled through the piercings in the dome, and spread a restful twilight around. There were divans of priceless Chinese silk, an ebony table whereon lay silver and crystal cups and coolers, fruit and honey cakes. Upon the divan lay ready a dress, silk also, plainly prepared for Iftikhar's new favorite, gold lace, jewel embroidery: in France worth a count's ransom; even in Constantinople worthy of the Empress herself. It was very still. Mary sat upon the divan beside the table and rested her face on her hands. She was more weary than one may tell. Despite the care of Iftikhar, the journey had been no easy one. And now this was the end! Here was the golden cage in which the bright bird was to be kept fast! Mary shed no tears now. Iftikhar had given her a pledge. She felt sure he would be patient within reason. But in time? Mary knew herself well enough and Iftikhar well enough to be sure that both were made of mortal stuff. After all, she was his slave—to be sold in the market if he chose. She had taken her vows touching Richard Longsword while life lasted. But was he not dead to her? Perhaps dead to all the world? Did men only die to one another when they stopped eating, talking, and sleeping? She could struggle, could put on her majesty, could say "No" a score of times; but in the end!—what end could there be saving one! So Mary sat in her revery, her thoughts as dark as the ebony table beneath her eyes.
Suddenly, as if awaking from a dream, she heard laughter,—laughter musical as a little stream, but with a mocking, angry tinge that left a sting. Mary lifted her eyes, raised her head. More laughter—louder, still musical. The Greek almost started. Could she not even have sorrow in peace?
"Have I not bidden you all begone?" was her cry, and at last the tears were not far from her eyes; for this defiance was the last drop to her cup of sorrow.
"No," came back a voice, clear and melodious as a zithern note; "no, you have commanded me nothing."
"Then now I say 'away'—leave me alone!"
"How sweet to see you angry! I will not leave you. See! I enter. I wish to look at you face to face."
The curtains at the farther end of the room opened. As they did so a score of little bells upon them tinkled, and Mary saw a woman standing in the mild half-light. Instantly the Greek rose, and the two looked into each other's eyes.
Morgiana was dressed in a manner only possible to one who felt the vulgar eye far removed. She wore loose green silk trousers that gathered a little below the knee; her feet were hid only by white slippers, where the gem-stones were flashing, and white silken stockings; arms and neck were bare; a gauzy Indian shawl, white also, was wrapped about her; on her girdle shone the gold chain work, another gold chain around her neck; the abundant black hair streamed loosely over the shoulders from under a jewel-set fillet. The two women stood facing one another for a long moment. Then each broke forth in one breath, but the Arab first.
"How beautiful you are!—I hate you!"
"How beautiful!—I wish to love you!"
The two sentences blended into one; and instantly Morgiana burst again into laughter.
"So this is the Star of the Greeks! I give you joy; you are worthy of Iftikhar Eddauleh! Ya; were you a peri of the deep, you could not be fairer!"
Mary bowed her head. "Lady," was her answer, "who you are I know not; but this I know, you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, and if Iftikhar possesses you, God alone knows why he casts eyes on me!"
Yet again Morgiana laughed. "God alone knows?" was her cry; "verily, I doubt it. Were He knowing, and yet able to change the world, wicked He must be to suffer the deeds of men! You think me a stranger. Well, Morgiana the slave of Iftikhar greets Mary the slave of Iftikhar, and Morgiana adds that she will kill Mary, as surely as the evening follows the morn!"
"Pray God that you may have your wish full soon!" answered the Greek, looking down. Her words seemed to have touched a new spring in Morgiana. The Arab threw her hands on high.
"Cursed are you, O Greek! Cursed your beauty! Cursed all who look in love upon you! Let the jinns of the abyss swallow you! Let Eblees, Lord of Darkness, have mastery of you! May your bright eyes be turned to blindness, your white skin scorch, your smooth arms wither—" But here Mary interrupted, humble no longer now, her own proud fire flashing in turn.
"Silence—madwoman! It is you the evil powers will curse! Do I need maledictions from you to make my lot less darksome, my cup less bitter? Curse Iftikhar Eddauleh, if you will, whose sin and passion blast your joy and mine! Curse him, not me!" And at this Morgiana broke forth fiercely:—
"No, no, not Iftikhar Eddauleh! Were he tearing me with tortures, yet would I bless him. Were he foul as the rebel angels, his kiss were honey. Dwelt he in parching Gehennah, to be with him—paradise! No word against him, or here and now I slay you!"
Mary made no immediate answer. Morgiana's face was aflame with passion; as she spoke she swayed in half frenzy. Under her breath the Greek murmured, "She is mad!"
"As Allah lives!" cried Morgiana, her mood veering swift as the flight of birds, "I have frightened you! Unjust, cruel, my heart is half ice and half fire. I have given you arrows instead of tears. You are blameless, wretched, helpless,—what may I do for you?"
And she had caught Mary's hands within her own, and was drawing her close and kissing her forehead.
"They do well to call you star and flower of the Greeks! Mashallah! how could Iftikhar and all the world fail to give all to gain you! From Cairo to Samarkand there is none like you!"
Mary did not answer. To her Morgiana was fury, houri, and angel all in one moment. She knew not what to think, and so kept peace. But the Arab ran on: "I saw you at Palermo. It came to my ears that you were very beautiful. I saw you ride to church once with your father. I, of course, was veiled and guarded by Hakem; and when my eyes lit on you, I said, 'She is not over-praised.' Yet there was a throng, and you were not near. But now, face to face, I say, 'Not all the poets from Imr ul-Kais to An-Nami could paint in verse your beauty; no, nor all the angels who sing about the throne of Allah!'"
"Praise it not," cried Mary, finding her tongue; "it is, as you say, cursed,—cursed for me, at least; please God, not for those who have loved me! I say naught of Iftikhar; let God judge him, not I!" Morgiana bowed her head in turn.
"You say well. Let the Most High judge Iftikhar. And now"—raising her eyes—"tell me; shall we be friends?"
Then and there the two kissed one another, cried on each other's necks, and swore—so far as spirits like theirs may—to be friends and sisters. For the burden of each was great. When they had ceased crying and could talk once more, Morgiana led Mary to the divan, exclaiming:—
"Wallah! But you are all travel-stained and weary. Where are Hakem and the maids?"
"As you love me," protested the Greek, "do not call them. I will not see that sleek eunuch's face again. I sent them all away."
"Hakem!" repeated Morgiana, with a sniff; "he is a harmless lizard, after you grow accustomed to seeing him trail his nose around. His teeth look very sharp, but they must not frighten you. Nevertheless, if you will not—" Mary shook her head.
"Then I will play the tiring maid!" cried the Arab; and she laughed when she drew the pins from Mary's hair, and let it fall over her shoulders, a shining, brown mass.
"Wallah! How beautiful you are!" Morgiana repeated again and again. She led Mary into a bath, where the air was heavy with perfumes of saffron and date-blossoms, then put on the Greek the Eastern dress which had been made ready. Mary's heart was very full when Morgiana laid aside the Frankish bleaunt; for in that mantle she had ridden beside Richard Longsword over the weary road to Constantinople; he had given it to her on their wedding day. But when the Arab wished to draw the little silver ring from her finger, the Greek shook her head.
"Silly!" commented Morgiana, "it is not worth a dirhem; I will bring you a casket of a hundred—ruby, onyx, beryl—"
"My husband set it there," replied Mary, thrusting back her hair and looking full into the Arab's face. "It was to remain there till I die." Morgiana tossed up her head. "Your husband? Richard Longsword, that boorish Frank, who has a bull's strength with a baboon's wits? How dare you love him, when you may have the love of Iftikhar Eddauleh!"
"Nevertheless," said Mary, very slowly, never moving her gaze, "Richard is my husband. I love him. Do not speak ill of him, or our friendship dies the day of birth."
"I have a very cruel heart!" cried Morgiana, kissing the Greek again; and the ring was left in its place.
They had completed the toilet. There was a long silvered mirror in the room, and Mary saw herself dressed after the fashion of the East, from the mother-of-pearl set upon her yellow shoes, to the gold-spangled muslin that wound above her flowing hair. "Holy Mother of Pity," she whispered, looking down at the little ring, "but for this, I were already become an infidel!"
The next moment the voice of Iftikhar demanded entrance, and the two women stood before him.
"Bismillah!" he exclaimed, smiling, and looking more handsome and lordly than ever, "I see two of the houris! You are friends?"
"We are sisters," replied Morgiana, a little defiantly. "I fled out upon the lake that I might not meet you when you returned,—but now!" and she took Mary by the hand.
"I will wait on you no more to-day," said Iftikhar, bowing in most stately fashion. But when he had gone, Morgiana gave a bitter cry:—
"Allah pity me; Allah pity you also! His words were for us both, but his eyes on you alone! I have lost him, lost him forever. The Most High keep me from some fearful deed!"
"I do not dread you," said Mary, gently.
"No," came the answer, "you need dread nothing. Christian you are, and Moslem I; but one God hears us both. Oh, let us pray,—pray for His mercy; for lesser help may not avail!"
Mary slept that night in the same chamber as Morgiana, an airy, high-vaulted room, in an upper story of the palace. Through the tracery of the lattice came the warm breeze, bearing the narcotic scent of those tropic gardens. But Mary was long in falling asleep on her soft pallet. In the darkness she heard the trumpet-voiced muezzins in the distant Aleppo, calling the midnight Oola: "Allahu akhbar! Allahu akhbar! Allahu akhbar! I testify there is no God but Allah, and Mohammed is the prophet of Allah! Come to prayer! Come to prayer! Prayer is better than sleep!"
The words pealed out in the night like voices from another world. Mary stirred and kissed the silver ring. "Dear Mother of God! Dear Christ who suffered for us all, give me strength to bear all, to resist, to endure! Keep my own heart true to Richard Longsword and our love. Save me utterly, if that may be, and if not, be merciful and let me die; for the temptation will be very great!"
Morgiana started in her sleep; the curtain above her bed rustled. "Dear sister," she said softly, "go to sleep. The day has troubles enough, without letting them steal peace from the night."
So Mary kissed the ring, folded her hands, and at last was dreaming.