“What I have said,” continued Sir Kenneth, with folded arms and dauntless look, “I would, were my hands loose, maintain on foot or horseback against all mortals; and would hold it not the most memorable deed of my life to support it with my good broadsword against a score of these sickles and bodkins,” pointing at the curved sabre and small poniard of the Emir.
The Saracen recovered his composure as the Christian spoke, so far as to withdraw his hand from his weapon, as if the motion had been without meaning, but still continued in deep ire.
“By the sword of the Prophet,” he said, “which is the key both of heaven and hell, he little values his own life, brother, who uses the language thou dost! Believe me, that were thine hands loose, as thou term'st it, one single true believer would find them so much to do that thou wouldst soon wish them fettered again in manacles of iron.”
“Sooner would I wish them hewn off by the shoulder-blades!” replied Sir Kenneth.
“Well. Thy hands are bound at present,” said the Saracen, in a more amicable tone—“bound by thine own gentle sense of courtesy; nor have I any present purpose of setting them at liberty. We have proved each other's strength and courage ere now, and we may again meet in a fair field—and shame befall him who shall be the first to part from his foeman! But now we are friends, and I look for aid from thee rather than hard terms or defiances.”
“We ARE friends,” repeated the knight; and there was a pause, during which the fiery Saracen paced the tent, like the lion, who, after violent irritation, is said to take that method of cooling the distemperature of his blood, ere he stretches himself to repose in his den. The colder European remained unaltered in posture and aspect; yet he, doubtless, was also engaged in subduing the angry feelings which had been so unexpectedly awakened.
“Let us reason of this calmly,” said the Saracen. “I am a physician, as thou knowest, and it is written that he who would have his wound cured must not shrink when the leech probes and tests it. Seest thou, I am about to lay my finger on the sore. Thou lovest this kinswoman of the Melech Ric. Unfold the veil that shrouds thy thoughts—or unfold it not if thou wilt, for mine eyes see through its coverings.”
“I LOVED her,” answered Sir Kenneth, after a pause, “as a man loves Heaven's grace, and sued for her favour like a sinner for Heaven's pardon.”
“And you love her no longer?” said the Saracen.
“Alas,” answered Sir Kenneth, “I am no longer worthy to love her. I pray thee cease this discourse—thy words are poniards to me.”