Scarce had he taken stand on the shattered parapet before the infidel was paying him blow for blow. At the third fence Longsword knew he had met his match, for no mean cavalier with a cimeter's light blade could turn a downright stroke of Trenchefer. At the fourth Richard took one step back—another would have sent him beyond love and hate. But his rage rose in him; at the fifth the infidel gave way. A great stillness was around; the sun was sinking in unclouded brightness; the Egyptians, cowering behind their battlements, bated their prayers to Allah as they gazed; the Christians forgot to invoke Our Lady. Richard, finding that a few smith's blows were profitless, fell to a slow and steady foil and fence; putting forth all his art, and every pass and feint that had never failed before. But he marvelled as he fought, seeing his subtlest strokes turned by that thin blade, which he deemed to have brushed away in a twinkling. Had he never before fenced with that cunning hand? The Moslem's shield now shattered; Longsword swept his blade low and parried; in a flash the other passed his cimeter from right hand to left, and the weapon dashed full upon the Norman's shoulder, ere he could raise Trenchefer. But the Valencia "ring-mail"—Musa's gift—was yet proof. Ere the Moslem could strike twice, Richard recovered, cast away his own shield, and pressed closer.
At a sweeping stroke of Trenchefer he slipped, and all the Franks moaned. But the infidel—gallant as his foe—did not press home the chance. Richard stood again, and struck as never before. "Paladins both!" rang from the Christians. Now at last men knew Longsword fought for life, not for vengeance only. Again the Franks began to tremble.
"The Egyptians rally; new companies mount the walls!" thundered Duke Godfrey; "beat them back or all is lost!"
The crossbowmen stood to their task like good men and true. They swept away the Nubians clustering on the battlements, but others swarmed after. A moment more, and not one but a hundred blades would close the perilous bridge.
"Across with a rush; sweep the champion down!" cried many Christians. But the great Duke answered, "Either in knightly fashion or not at all, let us take Jerusalem." His word was scarce spoken before one vast shout made the tower rock with the quaking earth, "Gloria tibi, Domine!" Trenchefer had sprung aloft; the cimeter flew to parry; the Norman's blade turned flatwise, but no mortal arm could have borne up against that stroke. The Christian drove home upon the shoulder, beating in the armor, though he might not pierce. The Moslem's weapon flew from his hand; he staggered, fell upon the walls, while past him and his victor leaped the exulting Franks.
Richard stood erect, but panting, while the brothers Lethalde and Engelbert of Tournai leaped upon the upper battlement, and with them Baldwin du Bourg and Reimbault Creton, mighty cavaliers all. A cry went up that would drown every other din that day of strife, "God wills it!" flung to the bending heavens. The Egyptians upon the walls fought at bay—how vainly! Richard knew the great day had come; the Holy City was won, his arch foe smitten; the journey, the agony, the pouring of the wine of life, had not been vain. God had remembered the toils of His people. Then, as he looked, he saw Sebastian in his white robe, leaping across the bridge. But just as his foot touched the crumbled wall, a chance arrow from some despairing Nubian caught him fairly on the breast. He fell, the white stole fast turning red. Richard caught him in his arms.
"Father," he pleaded, "dearest father, you will not die; see, the victory!"
Sebastian's lips were moving. Richard bent low—a woman's name, "Philippa." "Philippa?" the name of the priest's boy love? Who might say? But at this instant Sebastian started from Richard's arms, and pointed upward. "Look!" and Longsword beheld Godfrey setting the great crucifix from the tower upright upon the battlement of the Holy City. Sebastian's face glowed with an awful smile. He had seen it, Gregory's vision—the Cross triumphant on the walls of Jerusalem.
"Now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace," came the thin voice, "according to Thy word, for mine eyes have seen—" but the rest was heard by the angels about the Throne.
Richard gently lowered the head, stood, and stared about. Already the slaughter was begun on the walls and in the streets. From the Gate of St. Stephen thundered the battle-axes of Tancred and his host, whose strength swelled with the victory. Two thoughts were foremost in Longsword's mind,—"Mary; the Spaniard." He had not seen Musa on the walls. What had befallen? They were crying, "No quarter, slay!" He must act quickly. Suddenly his eye passed from Sebastian to the form of his victim. Holy Mother! the infidel stirred,—he was not dead! The casque was slipping back from the Moslem's face. The wounded man half raised himself, put forth a hand, and pushed away the helmet. Not for ten kingdoms would Richard have looked upon that face; but he could not turn away. And when the casque fell, Longsword beheld the face of Musa, son of Abdallah.