"Ah! dear Lord Jesus Christ," said she, "if there be indeed a heaven where good horses go, surely our Rollo will be there, a very angel!"
Richard laughed merrily, when he imagined the huge brute duly decked with halo and with wings. But Rollo, sensible fellow, who knew that he had only done his duty as became an honest horse, sniffed for water, found none, and then began to munch the thorny wayside thistles with as much relish as might a desert camel. Musa and Godfrey had dismounted, and were praising their steeds also. Well they deserved it, but neither had borne the burden of Rollo, or run as did he. When Richard turned once more to Mary, she gave a great cry.
"Mother of Sorrows," began the knight, "were you wounded?"
"I!" the Greek was saying. "They have nigh slain you! You have a hundred wounds!"
In truth Longsword was no pretty sight. For one could not fight and ride a night long, and not have bloody cheeks, bloody hands, and a cut on the right thigh where a cimeter had brushed away the Valencia mail. Richard wiped it off as best he could.
"It is nothing!" protested he, gayly; "ten times have I bled worse, and never been the sadder,—at Dorylæum, and time and again about Antioch."
"Ah, Richard," said she, "some day it may befall that if not you, another will be sadder if you risk your dear life lightly."
"And why not risk it, when I deemed you were worse than dead to me?"
Mary lifted her face. "But I am not dead, sweet husband; for my sake do not throw your life away. Above all, swear you will shun to meet Iftikhar. He is a terrible man."
But the Norman shook his head. "Dear life—say to me 'Pluck me down three stars,' and I will try; but avoid Iftikhar I cannot. God created us both; but not a world large enough to hold us both. Yet do not fear."