CHAPTER XXIX
THE CITY OF REFUGE
The fugitives pressed on apace, Sarchedon's horse, though wavering and exhausted, vindicating nobly the purity of its lineage, a race of which none ever failed to answer the rider's hand and voice, ask what he would; but when they stopped, they fell stone dead. Nevertheless, the foremost Egyptians gained ground too surely, and ere the Assyrians came under the protection of a friendly city, the swiftest of their pursuers had already halted to bend their bows.
A volley of arrows whistled round Sarchedon's head, who arrived last within the welcome shelter of the walls, bristling with bowmen, prepared to defend it against a host. As the great gate closed behind him, he heard the war-cry of Ashur swelling to a shout of triumph; while the baffled Egyptians, making the circuit of the place at a gallop, wheeled round and withdrew into the desert, as though content to abandon their prey.
"I never wish to look on Pharaoh's face again," said Sethos, drawing a long breath of relief, while leaping nimbly to the ground, he loosened the girths of his panting steed. "I have fronted the Great King in his wrath, and it seemed like passing through a burning fiery furnace, that scorches the beard and blisters the skin; but under the cold eye of Pharaoh, I could feel the chill of death creeping into the marrow of my bones."
Sarchedon did not answer. His heart was beating fast, and all the blood in his body seemed surging to his brain; for amongst the spectators looking down from the housetops on the entrance of their countrymen, he had caught sight of a veiled figure, that had in it something of her air and gestures who was never absent from his mind—the object of his search, the desire of his life, the woman he had loved and lost.
It was but a momentary glimpse. The figure disappeared almost as soon as seen. Nevertheless, for Sarchedon there was henceforth but one aim, one interest, in the whole city of Ascalon.
His progress through the streets reminded Sethos, though on a less splendid scale, of the Great King's return after his successful Egyptian campaign, with its greetings, its enthusiasm, its shouts of welcome, and casting down of flowers on the warriors' heads, though the numbers were scanty, compared to the population of imperial Babylon, the height from which the garlands dropped but mean and humble, measured by the pinnacles and terraces that crowned the City of Palaces, throned on her mighty stream.
Long before it could arrive beneath her walls, the watchman at the gate of Ascalon had espied this scanty troop of his countrymen advancing through the desert, pursued by an enemy from that south on which it was his duty to keep a sleepless eye. Ere Sarchedon became satisfied that he was making for a tangible stronghold, and not an illusion of the sandy wilderness, the city had been alarmed, and its Assyrian garrison, tried warriors all, were at their posts. Scores of bowmen therefore lined the streets through which the little party passed. Many a broad hand tendered its grasp of welcome and good-fellowship to the comrade who had baffled yet one more danger, foiled the hated Egyptian with bow and spear yet once again. Agron, the Captain of the Gate, a young warrior in whose company Sethos had often emptied the wine-cup, spending days and nights of revelry amongst the material joys of his beloved Babylon, himself accompanied them to the stronghold of the city, now brightened by a certain appearance of luxurious indulgence, added to its usual aspect of defence and grim security.