‘Oglu,’ said Hassan to one of his officers. ‘To horse! You need not strike the tents. Can we reach the city by sunset, merchant?’
‘An hour before, if you be off at once.’ ‘Sound the drums. To horse! to horse!’ The Seljuks halted before the walls of the deserted city. Their commander ordered a detachment to enter and reconnoitre. They returned and reported its apparent desolation. Hassan Subah, then directing that a guard should surround the walls to prevent any of the enemy from escaping, passed with his warriors through the vast portal into the silent street. The still magnificence of the strange and splendid scene influenced the temper even of this ferocious cavalry. They gazed around them with awe and admiration. The fierceness of their visages was softened, the ardour of their impulse stilled. A supernatural feeling of repose stole over their senses. No one brandished his scimitar, the fiery courser seemed as subdued as his lord, and no sound was heard but the melancholy, mechanical tramp of the disciplined march, unrelieved by martial music, inviolate by oath or jest, and unbroken even by the ostentatious caracoling of any showy steed.
It was sunset; the star of eve glittered over the white Ionian fane that rose serene and delicate in the flashing and purple sky.
‘This way, my lord!’ said the merchant guide, turning round to Hassan Subah, who, surrounded by his officers, led the van. The whole of the great way of the city was filled with the Seljukian warriors. Their ebon steeds, their snowy turbans, adorned with plumes of the black eagle and the red heron, their dazzling shawls, the blaze of their armour in the sunset, and the long undulating perspective of beautiful forms and brilliant colours, this regiment of heroes in a street of palaces. War had seldom afforded a more imposing or more picturesque spectacle.
‘This way, my lord!’ said the merchant, pointing to the narrow turning that, at the foot of the temple, led through ruined streets to the amphitheatre.
‘Halt!’ exclaimed a wild shrill voice. Each warrior suddenly arrested his horse.
‘Who spoke?’ exclaimed Hassan Subah.
‘I!’ answered a voice. A female form stood in the portico of the temple, with uplifted arms.
‘And who art thou?’ enquired Hassan Subah, not a little disconcerted.
‘Thine evil genius, Seljuk!’