"Peace, master," said Mary, gently. "I have refused her proffer. Be assured I will find strength to bear until I see once more my true husband, or having endured your unholy will, in God's own time I die."
But at the word the face of Iftikhar was blackened with yet deeper fury. "Your husband!" came thickly. "Yes, master," answered the Greek; "for, living or dying, Richard de St. Julien is my true husband."
Iftikhar cut her short: "Dying? What if dead?"
A frightful suspicion crossed Mary's mind. It was her face that was pallid now. But Iftikhar reassured her with a forced laugh: "Ya, how easy to tell you, 'Richard, the Frankish barbarian, whose sport is slaying guileless boys, has gone to his long account in the fighting around Antioch.' But I say to you, he lives, and I go to Antioch to seek his life."
The Greek was herself once more. Very steadily she answered: "Master, let God judge Richard de St. Julien for slaying Gilbert de Valmont, since Zeyneb I see has learned and told the tale. But let God also judge Iftikhar Eddauleh, who is mightier with the dagger of his underlings than with his own sword, and who finds iron lances as light in his hand as those of reed."
The words of the Greek were slingstones whirled in the emir's face. In the blindness of his fury he sprang toward her, and struck. The woman tottered, recovered; then tore back the muslin from her neck and shoulders:—
"Strike!" cried she, "strike again! Are you not master? Are you not lord of this body of mine you so lust after? What is a little pain, a few blows, beside what I ever bear!"
Iftikhar's muscles grew tense as springing steel when he reined in his passion. When he spoke, his voice was low and husky: "Woman, you drive me to all bounds. You do well to call me 'master.' Truly I am, as you shall own with sorrow, if not with joy. But two evenings past you were queen, with the heir of Hassan Sabah your slave. But now—" he was silent, but broke forth again—"my pledge to you is at an end. You are mine. I will break your will, if I may not win it. You still hold the face of Richard Longsword dear?"
"Yes, by every saint!" flashed the defiant Greek.
"Hark, then," was the laugh of hate; "I go soon to Antioch in company with the great host Kerbogha of Mosul gathers to rescue Yaghi-Sian besieged by the Christians. I go second in command, with the twelve thousand 'devoted' of Syria, to whom death is less than sleep, who can stanch thirst with the vapor from the sunburned sand, whose steeds find food sniffing the desert blast. We will gird round the Franks tight as a ring girds the finger. I know the bull valor of your Christians. But they shall die as die the flies, or fall one and all our prey—prisoners. And Richard Longsword—"