The maiden turned her eyes to behold the glittering sight, gazed at it a moment in silence, and then casting a look backward, in the direction of her father’s house, she heaved a deep sigh, and said calmly:
“Had we not better proceed?”
“By my halidome, yes!” said de Guiscan with sudden energy, “see yon troop of Saracens pricking up the mountain side in our rear—here—in a line with that cedar—”
“I see them,” said Zelma, breathlessly, “they are part of the Emir’s guard—they are in pursuit.”
“On—on,” was the only answer of the young knight, as he struck the Arabian on which the maiden rode, and plunged his spurs deep into his horse’s flanks.
They had not been in motion long before they beheld their pursuers, approaching, better mounted than themselves, sweeping over the brow of the hill above, in a close, dense column.
“Swifter—swifter, dear lady,” said the knight, looking back.
“Oh! we are beset,” suddenly said Zelma, in a voice trembling with agitation, “see—a troop of our pursuers are winding up the path below.”
The knight’s eyes following the guidance of the maiden’s trembling finger, beheld, a mile beneath him, a large company of infidel horse, closing up the egress of the fugitives. He paused an instant, almost bewildered. But not a second was to be lost.
“Where does this horse path lead?” he said, turning to the attendant, and pointing to a narrow way, winding amongst precipitous rocks, toward the left.