“Reflect, Roland. There is yet time. Mahomet is prepared to forgive you.”
All the answer Roland vouchsafed was the intoning of the canticle—
“Sub tuum Fræsidium confugimus.”
“In a few moments your body will be dashed to pieces on earth. Remember the wondrous things the Prophet offered to share with you.”
“Sancta Dei genitrix; nostras deprecationes ne despicias,” continued Roland. And now it seemed to him that, instead of falling at hazard, he was being gently carried. The chorus of afreets and djins was left far behind, but he still heard the sound of pinions.
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“Set your mind at rest,” said a voice so exquisitely musical that Roland trembled to hear it. “I am the Archangel Michael. Our Blessed Lady has sent me to preserve you. She had been touched by your constancy and courage. Repose in safety on my wings, and we shall soon reach earth.”