"De St. Julien, we are lost unless Godfrey and the rest rescue. The first messengers are surely slain. Are your troop still left, and your horses unwounded?" The noise of the Turks made his voice nigh inaudible, but Richard bowed his head.
"Then for the love of Our Saviour, ride, and bring succor. On you hang all our lives!"
"Men of St. Julien," cried Richard, "will you follow me?"
"Through ten thousand devils!" roared back De Carnac and the rest. Richard clapped spurs to Rollo.
"Christ guard us!" was his cry; but his glance was toward the encampment. He led the Auvergners to the left of the battle, where the Seljouk horde seemed thinnest.
And what followed was ever to Richard Longsword as one long wild dream whereof the memory lingered; the reality was blotted out. He knew that he charged his men against the horde, and, as ever, the Turks gave way before them—more victims to be swallowed in their quick-sands. But these Franks, having made their charge, did not turn back. The arrow fire smote them; yet on and on they spurred, still chasing back the foe. And then, when the tribesmen saw that these mad Franks would not wheel back to the encampment, from the fatal line around the Turks closed in, shield to shield, lance to lance. Richard never knew what saint gave strength to his arm that day, and made Trenchefer terrible to the unbelievers. Only after a long delirium of hewing and riding, he saw the open country before. A look backward—behold, he was upon a hill. The Turkish lines stretched away to his left; he had cleared their flank, and the battle raged in its mad carnival behind him. He looked for his men—how few! They had ridden from camp a hundred; scarce fifty were at his back. But the deed was done. They had cleared the Seljouks, and now to Duke Godfrey!
"Lord, I am a very sinful man," prayed Richard, as they pushed their wounded steeds down the hill southward; "unworthy of this mercy. Surely it was through the prayers of a dear saint whose peril is still great."
"Ride, men, ride!" he commanded, and gave head to Rollo, whose tough hide had turned more than one barb. The great black horse tossed out his hoofs and was away. No other St. Julien steed could pace him. He left the band behind, and Richard flew toward the long line of tents he saw nestling under a distant hill. The mighty steed ran like a beast of steel, unwearying, unslacking; hillocks he raced over, gullies he cleared with unfailing leap. The wind whistled in Longsword's hair—his helmet had gone, the saints knew whither; he felt the horse speeding too fast for thought. A few roving stragglers from the Seljouk host pricked after him, two or three arrows twittered overhead. Rollo dropped them all, their small steeds blown and weary, while on the Northern monster ran.
And now he drew near the camp. Men were shouting to him, a great crowd of varlets staring. Rollo ran down the streets of tents, a thousand eyes upon the thundering black horse and his blood-stained rider.
"The Duke! the Duke!" Richard was shouting, as he drew rein before the wide, silken pavilion. A score of knights and squires swarmed around. A strong hand was needed to stay Rollo. Richard sprang breathless to the ground, and stood face to face with Godfrey, just emerging from the tent. "Lord de St. Julien," cried Bouillon, "alone? Covered with blood?" But Richard cut him short.