To the surprise and joy of Sebastian and Herbert, Richard recovered from his wounds with miraculous rapidity. When the host marched again, many a voice cheered him. But those who loved him best saw the stony hardness of his face, beyond anything that came after the great stroke at St. Julien. No ragings and thunders now, but a calm and fearful laugh that made men shiver. He led a band of picked knights after the Seljouks, no more reckless cavalier in all the host than he. The Turks had been utterly routed. Two days' marches from the battle Richard found horses ridden dead by their panic-struck masters. Of all the prisoners taken Longsword had only one question, "Whither fled Iftikhar and his band?" But no prisoner could tell—they were only ignorant hordesmen. So Richard rode on, and only God knew what passed in his heart.
The army, now in one huge column, commenced the march across Phrygia, which journey, of all the unforgetable scenes of that Crusade, those who survived it were least likely to forget. Richard remembered the tales told by old Manuel Kurkuas, and laid in what provision he could for his men. Those of his friends who heeded him did likewise. But the multitude—noble and villain, creatures of a day—scarce stuffed their wallets, and went forward, little dreaming of the things in store. For the march was one long horror. Kilidge Arslan had ridden ahead with a band that still remained by him. If he could not stamp out the Christians with his hordes, at least he could make famine and thirst fight against them. He burned harvests; he devastated cities; the wretched inhabitants he hurried into exile,—with Phrygia, Pisidia, Cappadocia, to the gates in Mount Taurus, one desert for the bears and the wolves to hunger in. As the Crusaders advanced, they saw only fields seared and black, roofless houses, with swallows flitting above them; and forth from the caves in the hills crept gaunt, starved wretches, praying for a bit of bread in the name of Our Lord or Allah. The host climbed on the first day the crest of the "Black Mountains," fit presage for the blacker things before; so far as eye could stretch there was utter desolation. And on the next they entered the terrible valley called Malabyumas, and were there many days, hemmed in by precipices and beetling crags, while the great snake of the column dragged its slow length along. At first, while there was yet water on the hillsides and food in the wallets, the host toiled on with only the pitiless summer sun for foe; then, as the little streamlets grew rarer, the dry, dark crags pressed closer, and the food was failing, the misery began. Misery past imagining! for if it is terrible for one mortal to suffer and go out in agony, what is it when hundreds of thousands suffer? when horses and mules are falling like flies by the roadway; when men and women trudge onward like dogs, with their tongues hanging from their mouths; when the sun hangs, from morn till evening, a flaring, coppery ball, bright and merciless, drying up all the sap of life; while against the blue ether show the countless flocks of crows, that whir and caw as they pounce upon the dying ere the breath has sped or the living marched away?
The very hugeness of the host hindered its hasting through this land of torment. One Sunday five hundred persons fell down and perished with thirst, and those who toiled on called them happy; for in heaven one never dreams of cool fields and sweet, cold water, yet all the time is burned within by fire unquenchable. When a tiny stream was reached—what was it among so many? Women fell dying, with their babes sucking at their breasts; and the host pressed on, for help there was none from man!
The horses, poor brutes, died by scores; knights wept when they saw their destrers—often better loved than brothers—sink down; saw their dear falcons and hunting dogs perish. Yet who could think of beasts, where men were staggering with open mouths, gasping for each breath of wind to lighten their burning torments? Still the host pressed on, though, far back as eye might scan, the carcasses and the crows marked out the line of marching.
On and on! and in the midst of the torment there were strange hours of ecstasy, of rapture over visions passing human ken. Men raved of angels and a heavenly city, and streets of gold and living fountains; and the last word of the dying was "Jerusalem!" while the shout that went down the parching host when the sun beat fiercest and all the watercourses were dust, was, "God wills it! Jerusalem!" So the march kept on; and though thousands fell, none turned back, nor would have, had the backward track been of less peril than that before.
Richard bore the privations with a steadiness which made good the opinion of his followers that his frame was built of iron—not of flesh and blood. Yet his heart was cut, as never in this way before, to see his men dying before his face, and he unable to aid. Many a poor Auvergner called to his lord, and bade him tell some mother or wife or sweetheart in far St. Julien that he had struggled hard to gain the Holy City, but God had willed otherwise; and the seigneur would bear witness that he had been a faithful vassal and true Christian.
Rollo, great steed, endured the thirst with a quiet fortitude that let him survive when half the cavaliers of the army were bestriding mules and oxen. Sebastian, too, bore up, shrewdly remarking, as was his way, that his life of fast and abstinence had advantages in this world as well as in the world to come. Herbert, too, seemed unconquerable; but what with the losses at Dorylæum and the thirst, Richard saw his company thinned in a way to make his heart sick, even had this been all.
Finally, one day, when the last watercourse was dried up and death stared all in the face, certain knights saw their dogs slinking into camp, and behold, sand on their coats and mud on paws! Keen eyes tracked them; and, hid behind the bleak mountains, the searchers found a river, broad, still, stately, sweeping through its narrow gorge. Hither rushed all the host, soldier and beast. Had the Seljouks been by then, they could have slain their foes to a man, for the Christians forgot all save water—water!—sweeter, more precious, than spiced wine. They drank till from very surfeit they fell down stricken; and three hundred died, slain by the element of life.
This was the end of the great horror. They found new streams; the parching valleys began to sprinkle with green; they saw once more fields and trees and vineyards. "I, the Lord, will open rivers in high places and fountains in the midst of valleys; I will make the wilderness a pool of water and the dry land springs of water;" so repeated good Bishop Adhemar, the father of the army; and all who heard cried "Amen." And the cry was again, "God wills it! To Jerusalem!" not despairing now, but rejoicing, confident; for after so great a trial to their faith, need the Most High prove them more? Then the march quickened, the jongleurs played merrily, there were jests and tales around the camp-fires; and they began to hope for one more passage-at-arms with the infidel before taking the Holy City—as if Heaven had not saved them once already! Yet there was a tone of sadness in the host, for the line was much shorter now. Where was he who had left no friend on those burning sands or at Dorylæum? Troopers were trudging on foot; extra arms and baggage had been thrown to the wolves long ago; not a man in the army that had not grown a dusty beard. Once when Richard polished his shield so that it shone as a mirror, he saw his face upon it. He scarce knew himself, what with the stiff beard and the fresh scars of the battle, and those lines drawn above the eyes.
"Héh," cried he, forcing a jest to Theroulde, who sat by the tent mending a crossbow, "how would the fair ladies at Palermo who danced with me after the tourney regard me now?"