Those passing across the bridge heard a cry of pain that followed them to their dying bed. They saw Richard Longsword uplift Trenchefer with both his arms, and dash it upon the rock. Midway the great blade of the Vikings snapped asunder, and almost with a mortal groan.
"Dear God," called Richard, "is it thus at last the price of Gilbert's blood is paid!"
Then they beheld that man, who had wrestled with fire and death from dawn, cast his own helmet away, snatch the infidel in his arms, soothing and whispering like a woman, while his tears ran freely, as those of a little child.
CHAPTER XLVIII
HOW RICHARD SAW THE SUN RISE
How the Holy City was sacked by the men of the West; how the infidels paid for unbelief and blasphemy with their own blood; how the blood in the porch of the mosque of Omar plashed up to the bridles of the horses,—these things this book will not tell. For its story is of the deeds of men—not of demons, as their foes cried—nor of avenging angels, as their own hearts boasted. Neither is there need to tell how Zeyneb's life went out under a Frankish sword, nor how Herbert and Theroulde found Mary at the house by the Gate of Herod. It was theirs to save her from death or worse, at the hands of the raging victors, who deemed all in the city Moslem, that night of rapine and sin. Through Saint Stephen's gate they brought her forth, while in Sion, the upper city, the last Egyptians yet stood at bay, and Tancred and Raymond were leading to the final slaughter. Mary said not a word, while the St. Julieners led her through the sack and ruin, and through a thousand scenes at which her pure heart sickened. But when they had passed the wrecked portal, and the hill of Olivet lay before them, clothed in the gold and purple of the evening light, she said softly to Herbert: "And is my dear Lord Richard well?" For though they had said as much at first, yet their looks were so grave she was ill at ease. Then Herbert answered, "Blessed be St. Michael, sweet lady, he is well, though death plucked at him a hundred times." Then Mary asked—half guessing the reply—"And know you anything of his friend, the Spaniard Musa?" But the veteran glanced at Theroulde, and the jongleur answered: "Dearest mistress, he lies sorely wounded in our baron's tent—grief to tell, though he is Moslem!" Then the Greek bowed her head, and with no more speech they led her to the camp. At the tent door Richard came to meet her, treading softly, and neither spoke when he clasped her to his breast. He led her within where Musa was lying upon a pallet of mantles and saddle-cloths. Mary knelt beside him, touched him. He did not speak or move, though still alive.
"He will die?" she whispered, raising her eyes.
"He will die," answered her husband, very softly. "His armor is not pierced, but all his shoulder has been beaten down. Not all the physicians of his Cordova may heal." Then he took Mary by the hand, and they sat beside the bed. In whispers he told of all that had befallen that day, and learned from her how it befell that Musa wore the armor of Iftikhar. And Mary bowed her head once more, saying it was her own blind folly that sent Musa to his fate. But Richard stroked her tenderly, though his own heart was over full; then made her lie down, promising to waken her if the Spaniard came to himself. So a little past midnight Richard touched her, and she saw that the tent was lighted by lamps brought from the city, and there were silken cushions under Musa's head. The Andalusian was speaking.
"The Star of the Greeks? Is she here?"