“Why is the infidel so tardy in finishing his work?”
“Is the Crusader in a hurry to reach night?” sententiously replied the man of gorgeous trappings.
“He would like to stay long enough to execute a murderer—the chief of thy horde.”
“My horde? Thou knowest me?”
“Oh, yes, ‘Azrael, Angel of Death,’ thy minions call thee; but I defy thee as I loathe thee.”
The chief’s brow darkened; his sword rose in air, and he exclaimed: “Hercules was healed of a serpent bite, ages ago, at Acre; Islamism in the same place recently; I must finish the hydra by cutting off thy hissing head, Christian.”
Sir Charleroy steadily met his captor’s gaze, eye to eye, and was silent.
The chief paused; then lowering his sword, toyed its point against the cross on the prostrate man’s breast.
“Bitter tongue, thou dost worship a death sign; dost thou so love death?”