He revived as he uttered these words.
“The talisman—the powerful remedy, royal brother!” said King Richard to Saladin.
“The traitor,” answered the Soldan, “is more fit to be dragged from the lists to the gallows by the heels, than to profit by its virtues. And some such fate is in his look,” he added, after gazing fixedly upon the wounded man; “for though his wound may be cured, yet Azrael's seal is on the wretch's brow.”
“Nevertheless,” said Richard, “I pray you do for him what you may, that he may at least have time for confession. Slay not soul and body! To him one half hour of time may be worth more, by ten thousandfold, than the life of the oldest patriarch.”
“My royal brother's wish shall be obeyed,” said Saladin.—“Slaves, bear this wounded man to our tent.”
“Do not so,” said the Templar, who had hitherto stood gloomily looking on in silence. “The royal Duke of Austria and myself will not permit this unhappy Christian prince to be delivered over to the Saracens, that they may try their spells upon him. We are his sponsors, and demand that he be assigned to our care.”
“That is, you refuse the certain means offered to recover him?” said Richard.
“Not so,” said the Grand Master, recollecting himself. “If the Soldan useth lawful medicines, he may attend the patient in my tent.”
“Do so, I pray thee, good brother,” said Richard to Saladin, “though the permission be ungraciously yielded.—But now to a more glorious work. Sound, trumpets—shout, England—in honour of England's champion!”
Drum, clarion, trumpet, and cymbal rung forth at once, and the deep and regular shout, which for ages has been the English acclamation, sounded amidst the shrill and irregular yells of the Arabs, like the diapason of the organ amid the howling of a storm. There was silence at length.