“Not ’till thou can’st go, too.”
“I may die.”
“Then, I’ll go into the shadow land with thee.”
The knight was silent. The pain of his wounds was forgotten in the joy of that lone companionship. But, after all, his mind, perturbed by the shock, the pain, the dangers, was unable to rest. He tried to say to himself the prayer of the dying crusader, but the words were confused. He could not remember many of them; those he remembered, seemed to be unwilling to go heavenward for mercy. Some way in the clearness of judgment as to simple right and wrong that comes to a mind on the confines of death, he found himself condemned. He was haunted by a vision that came to his mind first the day he decided against conviction, at all hazard, to follow the family of Rizpah and Harrimai to Gerash. The vision was that of the false prophet Zedekiah, making himself horns of iron, and with them appearing before the wicked King of Israel, Ahab, to proclaim, not the things of God, but the things the prophet knew would meet the desires of his royal master. The wounded often fall asleep; it’s nature’s way of recovering from a shock and of chaining pain in forgetfulness. Sir Charleroy knew not whether he was sleeping or not; but the vision passed in painful vividness over his mind. He heard the prophet’s voice saying: “Go up to Ramoth Gilead, and prosper.” Then he saw a true prophet of God standing nigh, with sorrowful countenance, and the face was that of the Madonna. The latter moaned in his ear, warningly; “Who shall persuade, that he may go up and fall at Ramoth Gilead? Then there came forth a spirit and said, I will persuade.”
The spirit was black-garbed, in a blood-spotted garment, and wore, as Sir Charleroy seemed to see the apparition, a scarlet crescent, and the knight thought of Astarte. He heard in his vision the beatings as of mighty wings, rising to flight, and tried to turn and see who the departing one was. It seemed as if the spirit of Astarte-like countenance transfixed him with a gaze, so he could not turn; but a loneliness and darkness, almost palpable, came over him, and he knew it was the Madonna-faced prophet that had departed. The knight started up as if to rise, but, awakening, found Rizpah’s restraining arms about him.
“Stay,” she soothingly said. “Thou art feverish, and too weak to rise. Thou’lt be better presently; the blood has ceased flowing.”
“Oh,” he groaned; “I had such a dream!”
Just then Rizpah beheld coming in the distance, from toward Gerash, a horseman, at rapid pace. Her first thought, “The enemy returns.” Her second brought her hand swiftly to her reeking dagger, as she soliloquized: “He’s only one, and I’m one; if but a woman.”
The rider drew nearer, and she was almost overcome with the revulsion from fear and despair; for the comer was Laconic, the “news runner.” He knew the maiden, and wheeling his steed to her side with his usual brevity, cried out: