Once he and Godfrey drew rein at a wayside spring to water the horses. Lo, beside the trickling brook was a block of weather-stained marble, carved into the fashion of a maiden fair as the dawn. Mother of Christ! Was it not enchantment that made that stony face take on the likeness of Mary the Greek? What heathen demon made the lips speak to him, "Back! back! Do not cast your life away"?
"St. Michael—away, the temptress!" he thundered, and with Trenchefer smote the stone, so that the smile and the beauty were dashed forever. "Kyrie eleison! Christe eleison!" prayed Richard; "Holy St. Julien, patron of my house, forbid these fiends to tempt me!"
Yet all the wood seemed full of witchery and the voices of devils,—the old pagan devils, Pan, and Apollin, and Dian, and Hercules, and countless more,—who whispered ever that Christ and His heaven were very far away; that life was sweet, the sun was sweet, and sweetest of all a woman's love. But Richard muttered his prayers and rode onward; trusting that they might meet the infidels in flesh and blood, not sprites of the air whose arrows no ring mail could turn.
At last, after the sun had climbed high, and the horses had dropped to a weary pacing, there was a shout behind, —an Arab yell,—the clatter of scabbards and targets. Down a leafy way charged a squadron of Bedouin light horse, twenty, perhaps, and more. But Rollo and Marchegai had a fair start, well out of arrow range; and the unbelievers soon learned the speed of Frankish steeds. A long race, though not such as that when Iftikhar had led the chase. When at last the Bedouins turned back, their beasts all spent, the knights' mounts too had little strength to spare. Woods were still on every hand, when the two painfully walked beside their horses. As they climbed the slopes of Mount Silpius in the early afternoon, on the last stage to the city, suddenly from beyond a bend in the trees came the pounding of horsemen, fifty at least; and the sound neared fast.
Richard cast a glance at Godfrey.
"My lord," said he, "Rollo is at the end of his speed. We cannot run from fresh horses."
The Duke shook his head when he heard the deep pants of Marchegai. "It is true," he answered. "I think we had best say 'Our Father,' and look to our swords."
But down the forest lane came a clear voice, singing lustily the sweet Languedoc:—
"Merrily under the greenwood flying,
Zu, zu, away to my Mirabel!
Swift! For my lady waits long,—is sighing!
Zu, zu, more speed to my Mirabel!"
"De Valmont's voice, as I hope for heaven!" cried Richard, dropping the bridle. And straight toward them cantered a merry body of cavaliers and men-at-arms, Louis's broad pennon leading.