"The Christian camp," pleaded the Arabian. "There are friends, your husband, safety. Oh, were but Musa here, you could be sent without the walls ere it is too late."
"By the water-clock it lacks midnight an hour," said Mary, quietly. "The Spaniard may be here any moment. But I cannot dream that Iftikhar, at a time like this,—with the very city at stake,—will forget all, quit his duty on the walls, to tear a defenceless maid away to his harem."
Morgiana laughed again, very bitterly. "Fool you are, in very truth! Iftikhar cares more for the lashes of your eyes than for a thousand Jerusalems,—for a thousand of his own lives. You will be at his mercy before daybreak, though the Christian cavaliers sack the city."
There was the clatter of hoofs on the pavement, a shouting, a clang of armor and arms. Mary gave a great sigh of relief. "Musa; he has come from the walls with his guard." But Morgiana blasted the hope with one cry: "Hear! The Egyptian's voice!" And Mary reeled as she stood; for she heard a voice she knew right well thundering, "Guard the house about, and down with the door." Then came the resounding knock of a cimeter-hilt on the portal. The Greek sprang to the lattice over the street. In the narrow way below were fifty Soudanese negroes, with ruddy torches, tossing their spiked flails and spears; while beating at the door was a lordly figure in gilded armor—Iftikhar himself.
Morgiana saw Mary trying to speak to her; at least the lips moved. The blows on the portal redoubled.
"Open, open, or I kill you all!" rang Iftikhar's command, sounding above his own strokes. The eunuchs and maids of the household ran chattering and screaming from the lower rooms, as if they might find protection beside their mistress.
"There is no hope," said Morgiana, sullenly, holding down her face; "we have both played our game, and we have lost."
And the Arabian, all the fire and steel gone out of her, fell to her knees, cast her mantle over her head, shaking with sobs and groans. Mary trod proudly toward the head of the stairway leading to the lower court. Over her head hung a great bronze candelabra. She knew the light fell full upon her; she was sure she was never more beautiful than at that instant, when her face was bloodless as Parian marble. One resolve was in her heart—to let Iftikhar gather no sweets by her vain agony and tears. She was the great Greek princess, with the blood of Cæsars in her veins, never more conscious of her dignity and pride.
The weak house door had shivered. There was a heavy step in the court below, a voice commanding: "I will enter alone. Let the rest stand guard." Mary saw Iftikhar at the foot of the stairs; his gilded mail twinkling, his naked cimeter in hand, his black-plumed casque thrust back so that the face was bare. How splendid, almost how beautiful, he was, striding on in the pride of his power! But when he saw the white face and burning eyes of the Greek looking down upon him, even his wild spirit was reined for an instant. And while he halted on the first stair, Mary spoke, in tones cold as the winter wind.
"You come as ever, my Lord Iftikhar, unbidden, and with a naked sword. Are the cavaliers who saw your back at Antioch hidden in this house, that you must burst in to beard them?"