Thus the great work began. Knight and soldier seized an axe and pick, broke down the altars and images and the rich frescoes. They threw down the buttresses, sapped the piers and pillars at their foundations, breached the walls and mined them in many places. By sunset the whole church tottered, the great tower trembled, the pillars fell. It was then that they fastened twenty stout ropes about the knees of the great central piers. Every man quitted the doomed church and ran out to watch its final overthrow.
At the flash of Tristan’s sword the men in the square set their hands to the ropes and drew together with a loud shout. The two southern piers, sapped at their foundations, tottered, broke, and came down like thunder. For a moment the tall tower quivered and stood. Then came the rending of the walls, the heavy downrush of the roof. Pillars crashed down like smitten Titans; a cloud of dust rushed to the heavens. Even as the temple of the Philistines fell beneath Samson’s strength, so the church of St. Pelinore sank in ruins over Columbe’s grave.
CHAPTER XL
About the White Palace far south of the Great Mountains were pitched a thousand tents, some under the shadows of the wooded heights, others on the banks of a broad river. The palace stood on a hill in the midst of a valley, like a white casket wonderfully carved set upon a pedestal of green marble. In its gardens fountains played amid groves of roses, myrtles, and orange trees. Huge cypresses rose against the gleaming walls, overshadowing beds of purple flowers, white marble stairways, tranquil pools. Towards the deep blue dome of the sky, tower, turret, and minaret mimicked the white peaks of the distant mountains.
About the White Palace on its hill were gathered the armies of Serjabil the Caliph. Pious Moslem that he was, a turbulent man with a heart of fire, he had sent a letter through all his caliphate to such as served Allah and loved the Crescent.
“In the name of the most merciful God, Serjabil to all true believers, joy and greatness be upon you. By the most high God and Mohammed his Prophet, this is to declare that I would send our arms against the infidels who have fallen upon each other beyond the mountains. For behold fighting for the truth is obedience to God. Therefore gather to me, children of the faith, with bow and spear, buckler and scimitar, that we may destroy the infidels, and beat down the Cross into the dust.”
In the great Hall of the Ambassadors sat Serjabil in his ivory chair, a hundred carved pillars dwindling around into the golden gloom of the deepening eve. The ceiling of the hall was of cedar wood, inlaid with silver and lapis lazuli. The walls were covered with tiles of azure and green; the pillars and arches decorated with arabesques and letters of beaten gold. The floor was of white marble, the hangings of scarlet silk.
Serjabil wore a green turban enriched with rubies. His red robe was edged with rare fur over a tunic that was white as the marble floor. In his belt shone a jewelled scimitar, and before him on a desk of cedar wood was laid the Koran—the book of the Prophet.
Serjabil’s black eyes gleamed and sparkled in his dusky face. It was the face of a man who was both a soldier and a sage, one who possessed the heart of a Kaled and the wisdom of an Ali knit together. About him were gathered the great ones of his land, emirs with snow-white beards, merchant princes, soldiers, scribes. They were gathered there in Serjabil’s palace to hear his commands concerning the war.
Before Serjabil’s chair stood Hassan the poet, a thin-featured man, with a short black beard. The Caliph had called him forth from the throng to utter panegyrics in praise of war.