Prince Tancred had bounded into the arena.
"Felony!" his shout; "the emir had a pointed weapon. Sir Musa is run through. Physicians—aid!"
A dozen squires and grooms buzzed around the Spaniard, making to lift him from his horse. He sat erect—dispersed them with an angry gesture.
"Nothing—Bismillah! The lance turned as it split the target. My side was grazed, and a little blood drawn—it is nothing!"
"Lead Iftikhar Eddauleh this way," raged Tancred, his green eyes fired with his wrath. The emir had deliberately ridden back unbidden. From the benches came countless curses and jeers—Frankish and Arabic; he heeded none.
"What is this doing of yours?" demanded Tancred, very grave. "You rode with a pointed lance—no reed."
The Egyptian drew himself up very proudly.
"By the soul of my father!" swore he, outstretching his hand to Musa, "all men saw we were riding madly, and paying little heed to what was thrust in our hands. Just as we struck, I saw the steel—too late. A pointed lance must have been hidden in the reeds. Allah be praised, you are not slain!"
"This is not easy to believe," began Tancred. Musa cut him short:—
"I accept his oath—I am not disabled. Ride again!"