"On, my horse; on, my sweet swallow! Will you be run to death like a fawn? Shall the paynims say, 'There are no steeds like the steeds of the East?' Remember your glory, my Rollo! Remember the lists at Palermo! How you outpaced the winds at Dorylæum. And the brave days at Antioch, gone by! And will you now fail, swiftest of the destrers of France?"
Did the black brute understand? Did he know that he had been born and bred, that for those few moments, double-mounted as he was, he should speed swifter, ever swifter, beyond range of those shafts whereof one must soon strike home?
But the Ismaelians saw, and Iftikhar saw, who cursed his men by every sheytan, vowing stake and torment if they failed. Longsword still urged:—
"Onward! Onward! the jongleurs sing of Ogier's Broiefort, of Bayard the fleet steed of Renaud, but swiftest of all shall they set Rollo bearing master and lady, casting shame on the beasts of the Moslems. Bravely done, yet faster! Faster, and faster yet! See, the arrows are falling short! Hear,—they curse and call on their Prophet vainly for aid. On, Rollo; as I feel your stride, I grow proud, yet you can make it longer. On, Rollo; another such shaft, our riding is ended! On, Rollo; you bear rarer than gold in the saddle now! On, Rollo; God loves a good horse's speed. They shall deck you in ribbons, my Rollo, and Herbert shall kiss your dear black lips when I tell the tale. All the Julieners shall be glad; in old age they shall say, 'No steed now like to Rollo, the great horse of our seigneur.'"
And Rollo? Long had been his stride, longer now; swift, swifter now. No reed-limbed southern-born he; spaniel-sleek, and spaniel-tender. Where the road was rough, his great hoof bit out the rock and sent it flying; where smooth, the Ismaelians saw no wings, but they saw his flight. Godfrey and Musa led the chase, but not as Rollo. No arrows for them; the pursuers knew their prey. The eyes of the Ismaelians' steeds were blood-shot, bits foaming; arrow after arrow sped,—fell shorter. Mary saw yawning before them a wide gully, cut deep by the spring torrent. Life—death—flashed up in an instant. She felt Rollo draw his huge limbs together,—a bound, and cleared; a safe recovery; the horse ran on. Godfrey passed safely. Musa's charger stumbled, but reined up dexterously, recovered, flew on. The Ismaelians struck the gully together; two leaders went down, were trampled out in a breath, horse and man. The rest still spurred after. But Richard, as he counted the ells betwixt him and the black mass of the pursuit, saw the patch of dark road widening slowly, but surely. More arrows now; when these flew very wide, a single rider shot ahead of the rest. In the brightening dawn Richard saw the pursuer prodding with a cimeter-point to add to the spur sting.
Again Richard put his head close to his steed's ear. "Faster again, my Rollo; faster yet, I say! Only a little more. Iftikhar pricks cruelly now, cruelly. When did I that, to give you speed? Ha, we are better friends! You are winning a great race—are heading the fleetest steeds of Fars, of Khorassan. You are winning! I grow more proud—proud of Rollo, king of the destrers of France!"
The answer was a final burst of speed, and Richard knew he had never ridden so before. Iftikhar's men vainly strove to keep pace with their leader; one after another goaded, dashed forward, dropped from the chase. Musa's peerless Arabian, Godfrey's Marchegai ran neck to neck behind Rollo, but they bore no double burden. Richard's heart went with his eyes when he saw the last effort of the pursuit. For a moment the space betwixt pursued and pursuers lessened,—but only for a moment. Then the precious stretch of road grew wider, ever wider. There came a moment when even the steeds of El Halebah could do no more. Iftikhar still led; but he was not mad enough to pursue alone three such spirits. Richard heard his last curse of bootless rage. There was a last vain flight of arrows: one chance shaft whirled past Rollo's ear; the blood was started. That was all. Musa waved his cimeter as a parting defiance. The Ismaelians had halted. For the first time Mary and Richard had eyes for other things than the flying Rollo. They saw and marvelled that the darkness had gone. The sun had risen and was hanging a ball of red gold on the eastern horizon. Aleppo, El Halebah, and its gardens had vanished, as though but a vision of the night. All about were the rolling, arid Syrian fields.
When Iftikhar returned to El Halebah, the fire had utterly destroyed the wing of the palace containing the harem. Only through desperate efforts by the Ismaelians who had not joined in the pursuit was the remainder of the building saved. The grand prior's first act was to order search to be made for Morgiana. The "devoted" failed in their quest as completely as in the chase of the fugitives. The Arab seemed to have bidden the rock open and receive her. Breathing forth his vows of vengeance, Iftikhar had retired for the evening, before riding to join Kerbogha; but Zeyneb wandered from the half-wrecked palace into the gardens. He was alone in one of the remotest glades, when of a sudden his arm was plucked, and glancing about he beheld in the dimness the face of Morgiana. Where she had hidden, he did not know nor did she tell. He tried to shout; she plucked his throat as fiercely as on the previous night when she had mastered him.
"Ya," he heard her demand; "will you call the 'devoted'? Will you deliver me up to Iftikhar?"