“Let the knight say a dozen to three,” exclaimed Rizpah, as she drew from the folds of her garments a saber before unseen and touched the edge expert-like with her thumb.
“Oh, brave, pure girl! I don’t fear death; I’d court it for thee, but”—Sir Charleroy paused and looked unutterable misery; then instantly recovering and emboldened by the danger that threatened to soon end all, he exclaimed:
“Rizpah, thou rememberest my knight-vow at Purim; thou shalt see how I’ll keep it; if I perish, remember I have loved thee as I never loved any other being.” The words were very vehement, but probably very true. Rizpah blushed, brushed a tear from her eyes and then, in the frankness that such an hour engenders, replied: “And I thee—” the rest was drowned in the wild shout of the Turks as they close about the three. But they had not counted upon such a reception as those two men and that one woman gave them. Ichabod fought like a roused mastiff, without a thought of fear for himself. He struck vehemently, but a calm settled smile was on his countenance. Sir Charleroy saw it and years after said, recalling the incident, “amidst the greatest perils there’s a wondrous peace to one who feels he is striking for God, close to the portals of death and judgment.” The knight himself fenced with the rapidity of lightning. Again and again by ones and twos and threes, the enemies charged down upon him, but he fought with the prowess of a crusader, the fire of a lover. Those parts had never before witnessed such splendid swordsmanship. As the attack had been sudden, so was its ending. Two Turks fell beneath Sir Charleroy’s weapon in quick succession, and a third fell under his own horse, which was desperately wounded by a sweeping blow from the knight. At the same, instant, almost, Ichabod and one of the foemen, whom he was engaging, fell in significant silence, while another struggled to drag Rizpah to his steed that he might make her captive. Sir Charleroy, wounded and faint, dealt the latter miscreant a staggering blow and the maiden, plucking a small dagger from the folds of her garment, finished with a single thrust her captor’s earthly career.
Those of the marauders that were able, in fright took flight, wheeling away more quickly than they had come.
“Rizpah, wilt thou go to Ich—Huykos? I can’t,” softly called out Sir Charleroy.
The maiden flew to the Jew’s side, but quickly started back, crying: “Oh, knight, come quickly! He’s dead!” Just then, looking back, a sudden horror fell upon her, for she saw Sir Charleroy half reclining against a rock, bleeding and pale. Like lightning she thought: “Both dead; I alone; home miles away; the Turks hovering near.”
But the thought of her own peril was only momentary, and after it there came more rapidly than can be written the thought that one dear as her life was dead, dead for her sake. Instantly, on feet that seemed winged, she was at Sir Charleroy’s side. All her being merged into one great, instant impulse to save her lover. Over him she bent, and with passionate sorrow tried with her garments to staunch the flow of blood. In the sincerity and frankness that the presence of death ever brings, she arose above all prudishness and impulsively kissed the cold lips of the knight. His eyes opened, and he faintly murmured:
“I’m so happy, dear Rizpah. I know now it is well.” A little later he murmured: “Flee now for home. Thou’lt reach it by sun down. Leave me. To tarry is to court a harem prison.”
“Hush,” impatiently responded she; “see this dagger?” and she held it close to his half-closed eyes. “My pious father gave it me when I was but a girl. He told me it might some time save me from dishonor. It did so to-day, once. If those black demons return, sure as my name is Rizpah, it will do so again, even though I turn it toward my own heart.”
“Better flee, my love.”