Iftikhar cut her short by dashing on Richard as a stone from a catapult. Twice sword and cimeter clashed; thrice, and the Norman's strength dashed through the Ismaelian's guard. Iftikhar fell, but Trenchefer had turned in the stroke. He was not maimed. Ere Richard could strike again, the "devoted," with a great cry, flew after their chief, to drag to safety. Godfrey slew one, but his body became the shield. They plucked Iftikhar from danger. He stood, blaspheming heaven. There was blood on his shoulder, but he snatched for a weapon.
"Allah akhbar!" groaned Morgiana, falling on her face; "he is nigh slain!" Richard laughed in derision.
"Slain? He has strength to kill many good men yet; cursed am I, that my wrist turned."
"Again! Again!" raged the grand prior; and the "devoted" dashed upon the two Franks, but only to be flung back as before. At the narrow stairway, many had tried to ascend; none had passed Musa, "Sword of Grenada."
Mary was awaking from her oblivion. Still the clatter of swords, the howl of the Ismaelians, the loud "Ha! St. Michael!" of the two Franks. Never had she loved Richard Longsword as now, when she saw him standing beside the great Duke—the two o'ermatching the fifty. Heaven was very near, she knew it; but the vision of God's White Throne could hardly be more sweet than the thought—"Richard Longsword is doing this for me, for me!" And the Norman? How changed from the helpless ox the Ismaelians had dragged to slaughter! How the touch of warm breath and soft hair on his cheek, by a great mystery, had sped the might of the paladins through his veins!
The "devoted" renewed the onset. When Iftikhar sought to lead them, they thrust him back. When the Frankish swords proved again too strong, they brought lances and javelins. With darts they would crush down these destroying jinns. But Godfrey plucked up a low ebony table, tore three legs clear, holding the table-top by the fourth before him as a shield, and dashed the other three amongst the foe. A javelin quivered in the casement; he tore it clear, and sped it clean through target and cuirass of a bold Ismaelian. No more darts were flung: to supply weapons to this man were madness. Iftikhar urged yet another attack; he was met by stolidity and silence.
"Sheytans!" howled he, "are you not 'devoted'? Will you pawn Paradise for Gehenna?"
It was Harun the executioner who answered. "My Cid—sweet is Paradise, but the journey these promise is too swift. Strike off our heads at will,—Allah defends your enemies."
Iftikhar laid down his cimeter, and with outstretched arms approached the fateful doorway. The two were awaiting him, blood on their cheeks, their hands, their dress. But he knew their strength was still terrible; in their grasp were those swords,—those swords he in his arrogancy had left them, when he should have disarmed.
Richard bowed and saluted with Trenchefer.