Part 79 (2/2)

The crossbowmen stood to their task like good men and true. They swept away the Nubians cl.u.s.tering on the battlements, but others swarmed after. A moment more, and not one but a hundred blades would close the perilous bridge.

”Across with a rush; sweep the champion down!” cried many Christians.

But the great Duke answered, ”Either in knightly fas.h.i.+on or not at all, let us take Jerusalem.” His word was scarce spoken before one vast shout made the tower rock with the quaking earth, ”_Gloria tibi, Domine!_” Trenchefer had sprung aloft; the cimeter flew to parry; the Norman's blade turned flatwise, but no mortal arm could have borne up against that stroke. The Christian drove home upon the shoulder, beating in the armor, though he might not pierce. The Moslem's weapon flew from his hand; he staggered, fell upon the walls, while past him and his victor leaped the exulting Franks.

Richard stood erect, but panting, while the brothers Lethalde and Engelbert of Tournai leaped upon the upper battlement, and with them Baldwin du Bourg and Reimbault Creton, mighty cavaliers all. A cry went up that would drown every other din that day of strife, ”_G.o.d wills it!_” flung to the bending heavens. The Egyptians upon the walls fought at bay--how vainly! Richard knew the great day had come; the Holy City was won, his arch foe smitten; the journey, the agony, the pouring of the wine of life, had not been vain. G.o.d had remembered the toils of His people. Then, as he looked, he saw Sebastian in his white robe, leaping across the bridge. But just as his foot touched the crumbled wall, a chance arrow from some despairing Nubian caught him fairly on the breast. He fell, the white stole fast turning red.

Richard caught him in his arms.

”Father,” he pleaded, ”dearest father, you will not die; see, the victory!”

Sebastian's lips were moving. Richard bent low--a woman's name, ”Philippa.” ”Philippa?” the name of the priest's boy love? Who might say? But at this instant Sebastian started from Richard's arms, and pointed upward. ”Look!” and Longsword beheld G.o.dfrey setting the great crucifix from the tower upright upon the battlement of the Holy City.

Sebastian's face glowed with an awful smile. He had seen it, Gregory's vision--_the Cross triumphant on the walls of Jerusalem_.

”Now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace,” came the thin voice, ”according to Thy word, for mine eyes have seen--” but the rest was heard by the angels about the Throne.

Richard gently lowered the head, stood, and stared about. Already the slaughter was begun on the walls and in the streets. From the Gate of St. Stephen thundered the battle-axes of Tancred and his host, whose strength swelled with the victory. Two thoughts were foremost in Longsword's mind,--”Mary; the Spaniard.” He had not seen Musa on the walls. What had befallen? They were crying, ”No quarter, slay!” He must act quickly. Suddenly his eye pa.s.sed from Sebastian to the form of his victim. Holy Mother! the infidel stirred,--he was not dead! The casque was slipping back from the Moslem's face. The wounded man half raised himself, put forth a hand, and pushed away the helmet. Not for ten kingdoms would Richard have looked upon that face; but he could not turn away. And when the casque fell, Longsword beheld the face of Musa, son of Abdallah.

Those pa.s.sing across the bridge heard a cry of pain that followed them to their dying bed. They saw Richard Longsword uplift Trenchefer with both his arms, and dash it upon the rock. Midway the great blade of the Vikings snapped asunder, and almost with a mortal groan.

”Dear G.o.d,” called Richard, ”is it thus at last the price of Gilbert's blood is paid!”

Then they beheld that man, who had wrestled with fire and death from dawn, cast his own helmet away, s.n.a.t.c.h the infidel in his arms, soothing and whispering like a woman, while his tears ran freely, as those of a little child.

CHAPTER XLVIII

HOW RICHARD SAW THE SUN RISE

How the Holy City was sacked by the men of the West; how the infidels paid for unbelief and blasphemy with their own blood; how the blood in the porch of the mosque of Omar plashed up to the bridles of the horses,--these things this book will not tell. For its story is of the deeds of men--not of demons, as their foes cried--nor of avenging angels, as their own hearts boasted. Neither is there need to tell how Zeyneb's life went out under a Frankish sword, nor how Herbert and Theroulde found Mary at the house by the Gate of Herod. It was theirs to save her from death or worse, at the hands of the raging victors, who deemed all in the city Moslem, that night of rapine and sin.

Through Saint Stephen's gate they brought her forth, while in Sion, the upper city, the last Egyptians yet stood at bay, and Tancred and Raymond were leading to the final slaughter. Mary said not a word, while the St. Julieners led her through the sack and ruin, and through a thousand scenes at which her pure heart sickened. But when they had pa.s.sed the wrecked portal, and the hill of Olivet lay before them, clothed in the gold and purple of the evening light, she said softly to Herbert: ”And is my dear Lord Richard well?” For though they had said as much at first, yet their looks were so grave she was ill at ease. Then Herbert answered, ”Blessed be St. Michael, sweet lady, he is well, though death plucked at him a hundred times.” Then Mary asked--half guessing the reply--”And know you anything of his friend, the Spaniard Musa?” But the veteran glanced at Theroulde, and the _jongleur_ answered: ”Dearest mistress, he lies sorely wounded in our baron's tent--grief to tell, though he is Moslem!” Then the Greek bowed her head, and with no more speech they led her to the camp. At the tent door Richard came to meet her, treading softly, and neither spoke when he clasped her to his breast. He led her within where Musa was lying upon a pallet of mantles and saddle-cloths. Mary knelt beside him, touched him. He did not speak or move, though still alive.

”He will die?” she whispered, raising her eyes.

”He will die,” answered her husband, very softly. ”His armor is not pierced, but all his shoulder has been beaten down. Not all the physicians of his Cordova may heal.” Then he took Mary by the hand, and they sat beside the bed. In whispers he told of all that had befallen that day, and learned from her how it befell that Musa wore the armor of Iftikhar. And Mary bowed her head once more, saying it was her own blind folly that sent Musa to his fate. But Richard stroked her tenderly, though his own heart was over full; then made her lie down, promising to waken her if the Spaniard came to himself.

So a little past midnight Richard touched her, and she saw that the tent was lighted by lamps brought from the city, and there were silken cus.h.i.+ons under Musa's head. The Andalusian was speaking.

”The Star of the Greeks? Is she here?”

”I am here, Musa, dear brother of my husband!” said the lady, at his side. ”Speak, and say you will master death as you mastered Iftikhar Eddauleh; that you will forgive this rash disobedience of mine which brought you all this woe!”

Musa's face wore one of its old, soft, melancholy smiles.

”Ah! Rose of Byzantium,” said he, half whimsically, ”do you think I am so great I can hurl back doom? I grow too proud with the praise.

Forgive you? Forgive what--that you loved Richard Longsword, and wished to know it was well with him? No more of that. I forgive, if aught needs forgiving. As for dying, as well to be sped by Trenchefer as by any blade. It was written by Allah upon the canopy of the stars, and Allah does all things well.”

”Ah, would G.o.d I could die in your stead, my brother, my brother,”

<script>