Part 77 (1/2)

Iftikhar pointed toward the door with his cimeter. ”I made truce with you,” he retorted defiantly, ”not with _her_.” And he glared madly at the Greek. ”Away, or the Soudanese strike off your head!”

The Spaniard calmly let his weapon sink to the pavement, and smiled as he leaned upon it. ”Good emir, we have our hands busy--as Allah knows--to defend _El Kuds_. Do we well to nurse private l.u.s.ts and hates, while the jewel of Islam trembles in the balance?”

”Off!” came the hot reply. ”Off, or you die this instant!”

Musa lifted his eyes from the floor, and gave the Egyptian glance for glance. ”I do well to tremble!” was his answer, the voice higher now, with a ring of harshness. ”I do well to tremble! Remember the tourney at Palermo, my lord emir! Was it Iftikhar Eddauleh who crowned his turban with the prize?” And he stood on guard across the door.

”Remember a night like this at Monreale.”

The face of Iftikhar was black with his fury. For an instant there was a grating in his throat, thickening every word. ”_Ya!_ Dogs from Nubia, smite this mutineer down! Hew him down, or I hang you all!”

The Soudanese stared at him, rolling the whites of their great eyes, but not a spiked flail rose, not a foot crossed the threshold.

”Are you, too, rebels?” howled the Egyptian, his breath coming fast.

Musa had turned to the fifty.

”Hear you, Moslems. In an hour like this, with the Sacred City at stake, shall your emir or another dip hands in a private quarrel? What do I, save defend my own house, and my own harem? Have I not wrought on the walls manfully as Iftikhar? Dare any deny it?”

A shout came from the Soudanese:--

”You say well. You have been the sword and s.h.i.+eld of Jerusalem, no less than the emir!”

”Hounds of Eblees! Will you not hew him down?” raged Iftikhar.

A gray-headed negro, captain of the fifty, fell on his knees before the Egyptian. ”Cid, command, and we follow through the Christian camp; but we are the slaves of Kalif Mustaali, Commander of the Faithful, not yours for private feud. We cannot obey.”

”Traitors!” the veins in Iftikhar's forehead were swollen now. ”Know that this is no slave of Musa, son of Abdallah, but the wife of Richard Longsword, a chief of the Franks. You aid the infidels in saving!” But the Soudanese did not stir.

”And where reads Al Koran,” retorted Musa, ”'Thou shalt possess thyself of thine enemy's wedded wife'? For the sake of peace and El Islam leave the Greek till the siege be ended.”

”For the sake of El Islam suffer me to depart with her unhindered.”

Iftikhar cast the woman across his left arm as though a toy, and swinging his blade, sprang toward the portal.

”Make way!” rang his last warning.

”Then let Allah judge the wrong!”

Musa was before the entrance, his cimeter waving. Iftikhar knew well he had no light combat in store. He cast Mary from him as he might a stone, and sprang to his work.

”I am not balked, as at Monreale!” he hissed from his teeth.

”No, _Bismillah_! I can kill you now!” flew the answer.

The steels rang sharp, stroke on stroke. Musa was without armor; but he had torn his cloak from his shoulders and covered his left arm. The cimeters were of equal length, and every time they clashed there flashed fire. Musa sprang aside from the doorway at the first blow, and worked his way into the middle of the court, where the light was stronger and there was ample s.p.a.ce. This was no duel with long swords, as between Richard and Louis, where sledge-hammer strength was victor.

The Spaniard's blade was both sword and s.h.i.+eld. Again and again the Egyptian gave a sweeping stroke, a lunge, and felt his ”Damascus”

parried by the turn of a wrist, or to pierce only the air. Well that he wore armor! Time and again Musa's weapon clashed on his hauberk, making the chain mail ring and its wearer reel. Click, click, sang the blades, and so the two fought on.

”_Allah!_” the Soudanese would cry every time the Spaniard seemed ended by some downright stroke. Yet he never bled, but paid blow for blow. It was a marvel to see them. What Musa lost for lack of arms, was half returned in nimbleness. The Egyptian twice staggered in his armor, twice recovered. Musa had p.r.i.c.ked him upon the neck, and the blood was running over the gilded s.h.i.+rt. But the fury of a thousand jinns was in his arm; still he fought.

Mary stood against the pillar by the upper stair, watching the combat as if through a mist. Deeds and words had flown too fast for catching.