CHAPTER XXXVIII
HOW RICHARD AND MUSA AGAIN PARTED
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 Christian destrer pacing 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, he is advancing!" 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.