"God wills it! St. Julien and Mary Kurkuas!"
So the woods rang with his battle-shout. He could see the Moslems, staring half amazed, as he came on headlong, one against their scores; saw bows bend; heard the arrows scream past. The leader he had singled as his prey was dashing down the road to meet him. How fair a combat!
"God wills it! St. Julien and Mary Kurkuas!" Richard gave it as his last battle-cry, and swung Trenchefer to beat through the Moslem's guard; when lo! the strange warrior had dropped cimeter and shield—reined short—and from him, as if by echo, there came: "Mary Kurkuas! Allah akhbar, you are Richard Longsword!" And Richard let Trenchefer clatter in the dust. "Musa! my brother!"
Then, all in armor as they were, they flung their mailed arms about one another for very joy, and cried, shedding great tears, as do only strong men when moved too deep for speech. For a moment the other Moslems, as they swarmed about, were ready to run Richard through, thinking he had taken their chief captive by some magic art. But Musa motioned them aside. When the two again found words, the first question from the Spaniard was, "And how is it with the Star of the Greeks?" But at this, the face of Richard grew dark.
CHAPTER XXIX
HOW IFTIKHAR BORE HOME HIS PRIZE
Iftikhar Eddauleh rode over the dusty road from Turmanin to Aleppo with only thirty about him of the hundred riders that had followed him to Dorylæum. But Zeyneb was at hand, and Eybek, who had gone on the secret mission months before; and beside the grand prior moved a horse-litter containing a treasure Iftikhar would not have parted with had the heads of all his men and his own been at stake. Mary Kurkuas was his. The scene when he took her in the Christian camp had been terrible; how beautiful she had been, standing at bay, dagger in hand—no lioness more dreadful! He had disarmed her without marring one spot on a skin that was soft as the rose-petals. How she had cried and pleaded! He had been cruel? Yes; the poets all sang love was either cruel or sweet; and Iftikhar would be all sweetness now.
As the troops rode past the khan which stands on the Aleppo road, about twelve furlongs' journey beyond the gates, Iftikhar drew up his horse beside the litter, which Zeyneb was carefully guarding. The curtains were closed, but he spoke in his soft, melodious Arabic: "Star of the Greeks, if you will,—look forth! For we are approaching Aleppo, and now you may set eyes on the palace El Halebah, which, by the blessing of Allah, is mine, and therefore yours!"
Mary thrust back the curtains. Her face was very pale now; the red spots on either cheek seemed to glow with hidden fire. But her eyes were dry and bright—the hour of outward agony had been long since passed.