"We are hardly winded, my lord," quoth he, though in truth his breaths came fast. "I reproach the saint that ended our adventure together!"
Iftikhar came a step nearer.
"De St. Julien," said he, in a voice that shook, in mere striving for calmness, "you are indeed a valiant man; and you also, my Lord Godfrey. I honor you, and cry against Allah that we must meet as foes not friends. But you are no jinns, though my cowards bellow it. You have wounds both. You must soon go down. Ten you may slay, but not hundreds. I make you a fair proffer of life and honor"—he dropped his voice—"of life, honor, and safety for the army of the Franks."
Godfrey's hand almost dropped the hilt at this last; but he answered:—
"I am simply companion to my Lord de St. Julien. In this adventure he leads. Make conditions with him."
Iftikhar faced Richard. "Ride free, then," said he; "receive your horses. I swear it is not too late for your host to be warned. My Ismaelians shall conduct you through the net spread by Kerbogha; but on this condition—that you give back to me—" his voice faltered; his eye wandered to the corner of the room within—"give back to me alive the Star of the Greeks."
Richard felt as though dashed by a thunderbolt. Yield Mary to Iftikhar as price of his own life? God knew he never thought on that! But should he set her joy and his before the lives of dear comrades, who had ridden lightly to the jaws of death in his quarrel? Above all, should he peril the army of the Cross because Mary loved peace in heaven rather than the pleasures of El Halebah? No words came to his lips; he turned appealing eyes to Godfrey, who spoke nothing. But in the silence Mary spoke. She had risen, had advanced to the doorway. The two enemies—the Egyptian, the Norman—gazed at her as upon a treasure for which life were a trivial price.
"Dear husband," her voice came, sweetly as bells across the misty sea, "you know what you should say. God will avenge me in His own time, and reward me and reward Iftikhar each according to justice. I have borne so much, I can bear a little more. You must save yourselves, must warn the army. It was a sin to go to Aleppo; now Heaven allows you to ride away scatheless. Do not distrust Iftikhar; he violates no oath."
What might Richard say? His wife before him—in all her beauty! To save her he would have felt it untold joy to die. He knew that she herself loved death more than life in this renewed captivity. And yet there she stood, pleading—pleading, as never before, to be left to her captivity. What might he do? Mother of God, he was of too frail stuff to answer! But the great Duke, whose hand was the heaviest, whose heart the purest, in all broad France, made answer for him. Very gravely he was replying to Iftikhar.
"My lord, I have faith enough in God to believe that He will not suffer His army and His cause to perish, because we withhold this price—the agony of one of His angels. Go back to your men, my lord. We shall hold them at bay as long as He wills. And rest assured that, before they master us, the Lady de St. Julien shall have granted her, as she has prayed, a swift death at our swords, rather than a slow one in your palace."