The Norman did not cry out. Native sense told him that help there was none, and all the teaching of the stern school wherein he was bred had taught him to bear in silence. All stood while Richard saw the torch carried to the other knots of white-robed men. Then again the voice: "This is the Spaniard, Cid Musa, the son of Abdallah." And now a great shout of triumph: "Praised be Allah, destroyer of His enemies! We take the Emir Godfrey, chief of the Frankish unbelievers!"
Longsword had no need to be told that this was Zeyneb's voice. He was about to break forth with defiance and curses upon the dwarf, when in the torchlight he saw a form taller than the others, the plumes of a haughty helmet, the flash of gilded steel. The captors gave way to right and left as the chieftain—so he clearly was—advanced until face to face with Richard.
"Do you know me? I am the one-time commander of Count Roger's guard, the Egyptian Iftikhar Eddauleh."
The grand prior had spoken naturally, without bravado.
And Richard answered in like vein:—
"I claimed the honor of your friendship once, my Lord Iftikhar. Fate has kept us long asunder."
Iftikhar's plumes nodded.
"And brings us together at last. Doom leads to El Halebah you and the valorous Cid Musa and this noble emir, who is strange to me. The night advances; let us go."
Before his captive could reply, the Egyptian had faded in the dark. An Ismaelian laid his hand on Richard's sword-belt to disarm him. Trenchefer clanked. Iftikhar spoke out of the gloom:—
"Leave the sword, Harun. A Frank cavalier loves better to part with life than with weapon. Wallah! Let them keep their blades and feel them at their sides; but knot fast,—their strength is as seven lions!"