Yet many did not falter; Tancred did not, nor Count Raymond, nor G.o.dfrey who, before all others, was the reproachless warrior of his Lord. Bishop Adhemar thundered against the vice in the camp, holding up the fate of Babylon and of pagan Rome, mother of harlots. Stern measures were taken against sins of the flesh. Blasphemers were branded with a hot iron. When some of Yaghi-Sian's spies were taken, Bohemond had them butchered and cooked, to spread the tale in Antioch that the Christians ate their captives, and that those who came after be discouraged.

But when Peter the Hermit took flight by stealth, the whole army raged in despair.

"If he flee, whom may we trust? Sooner expect a star fall from heaven!" was the cry. Tancred pursued after and brought him back.

"Father," quoth the Prince, "do you well to lead Christians into a strait like this,--then valorously depart?"

"Alas!" moaned the one-time prophet, "the flesh is weak, though the spirit willing! Would I had never preached the Crusade! When I see the sins of the army, I fear lest I am 'that Egyptian,' as St. Paul was accused, 'who led forth into the wilderness four thousand men that were murderers.'"

"Hark you, father," cried the Prince, with a bitter laugh. "I am a warrior and no churchman; but I think it shame for knight or villain to call the devil above ground, and then cry because he has a sting in his tail! Back you shall go, will you, nill you; and let us have no more long chatterings about the sinful sloth of the warriors of France until the praters themselves rule their lives by their own gospel."

So they fetched Peter again to Antioch. Before all the army he swore an oath on the Scriptures that he would never desert. And to his honor be it said, this lapse was his last. In the after days he won yet more glory and confidence, despite this showing of human frailty.

Thus the winter wasted. With the spring came better food and more fighting. Richard had kept his men in moderate health and spirits; first by his iron discipline, second because he remembered a hint given by Manuel Kurkuas on Eastern campaigning, and had pitched his tents on a plot that was sheltered by a hill from the malarial winds of the lowlands. Now rumors began to come into camp that great preparations were making among the Moslems for sending a huge host to the relief of Antioch. As the sun smiled warmer, the hearts of the Crusaders lightened. Their camp beside the green-bowered Orontes was a n.o.ble sight,--one sea of pennons and bright pavilions,--and all about a wide moat and a palisade. The knights rode in their tourneys, and tinkled their lutes in praise of some maiden in far and pleasant France. But still Yaghi-Sian made Antioch good, and Jerusalem seemed very far away.

Richard told himself that even Mary would not know him now,--what with the thinness of his cheeks and his beard that almost brushed his breast. The first bitterness of his loss was beginning to pa.s.s. Mary had doubtless become wise, and submitted to her lot. Iftikhar, he knew, would give her every sensuous delight. He prayed that she might learn to be reconciled. As for himself, there was much work to do. Men honored his great sword. Though his seigneury was small, the greater lords called him to their council, because he spoke the infidels'

tongue, because his heart was in the Crusade and not in worldly advantage; above all, because in him they saw a born leader. He was still the reckless and headlong cavalier whose squadrons could scarce keep Rollo in sight when their chief was in the saddle.

"Beware, De St. Julien," said G.o.dfrey, one day, while it was arranged that Richard should lead a picked band of forty down toward the port of St. Simeon to cut off some Arab skirmishers. "Life is not to be thrown down like a cast of dice. Remember Oliver's warning in the tale:--

"'Valor and madness are scarce allied; Better discretion than daring pride.'"

"True," answered Richard, smiling, while his eye wandered vacantly over the fine-wrought "life of Moses" pictured on the tapestries lining the good Duke's tent. "But were I struck dead as I stand, who would feel a pang? My old watch-dogs, Herbert and Sebastian, Theroulde the minstrel, Rollo, my horse--who more, my Lord Duke?"

G.o.dfrey touched the young knight's hair gently when he answered: "Fair son,--for so I will call you, if you take no offence,--all are put in this world for some great and glorious work,--and to us especially is granted the task of wresting Christ's own city from the unbelievers.

You would not shun your task. Is it not as wrong to fling life away as to turn the back on the foe in fair battle? And if aught befell you, say not that none would mourn. Believe me, we all love and honor you; for we see that in your heart burns a rare and mighty love for Christ, and your fall were a grievous loss."

"You say well, my lord," said Richard, bowing; "and were I to fall, men would mourn 'another stout swordsman and good lance gone'; for I am honored for my strong arm. But that might be cut off, yet I were still Richard Longsword; then who would care if I died a thousand deaths!"

"As Our Lord lives, not so bitterly!" remonstrated the good Duke. But Richard only replied as he went out, "I thank your kindness; but if I meet the infidels to-day, let the saints judge between us, and we shall have a n.o.ble battle!"

"By Our Lady," swore G.o.dfrey, when Richard departed, "I have great sorrow for that lad; for lad he is, yet with so old a face!"

And Bishop Adhemar, who had stood by after the council broke up, replied: "And I too am torn for him. For his sorrow is beyond human comfort. Alas! poor baroness! I met her often on the march. May she and he alike learn to bow to the will of G.o.d!" But Richard had flown back amongst his men, and called loudly, "To horse!"

"_Laus Deo! Gloria! Gloria!_" he shouted to Herbert; "as you love me, saddle with speed. Scouts bring in that a squad of the emir of Emessa's cavalry lurk around the port. I ride to cut them off."

"Horse and away, then!" bawled the man-at-arms. "Yet why so merry?"

And Richard answered, laughing:--

"I know not, dear fellow; yet I feel as if some angel had said to me, 'Richard Longsword, some great joy to-day awaits!'"

"And what joy?"

"By St. Maurice, I know not, and care less; most likely I shall slay twenty infidels, and be slain by the twenty-first!"

"The saints forbid!"

"The saints forbid nothing. I have said in my heart, 'Ill-fortune, enough of you! Begone!'" And the others marvelled at Longsword's merry mood. "Forward, and St. Michael with us!" his command. "Forward!

forward!" came from all the rest, for they sniffed adventure when Richard Longsword led.

Richard gave Rollo a little tap on the flank, that sent the huge brute racing better than any spur, and they plunged away at a brisk gallop.

Very fair that spring day. Underfoot the wild flowers were springing; the turf had a fresh green, and all the silver poplars and oaks were putting on young leaves. When the troop watered their steeds by a tinkling brook, they saw the water strewn with scattered apple blossoms. Everything was sweet, balmy, and kind. Who under such a sun could keep sad, and grimace at G.o.d and His world? Not Richard Longsword. He broke into a gay battle-song of Theroulde's; then the others took it up, and they made the myrtles and oleanders quiver with their chorus as they rode along.

"Surely the saints are with us this day!" cried Richard, when the last catch died on the air. They were skirting the Orontes, now hidden by the trees, now riding by its bright current, and watching the swans spread their white sails to the soft east wind. But Longsword had not forgotten the more serious duty that called him afield.

"You, De Carnac, and two more, dismount. Walk to the crest of this hillock, and get a long sweep of the valley," was his order.

Presently the three came back with tidings that there was a company of hors.e.m.e.n, Saracens presumably, camped in the meadow just beyond a little terebinth grove.

Richard drew up his men with the promptness born of a score of like encounters.

"G.o.d wills it! At them!" such his shout. And the forty, all as one, swept from their covert over the gra.s.sy savannah--were round the grove and upon the infidels before one could count an hundred. Easy victory; for the Moslems, perhaps three score, had many of their horses picketed, and were preparing a meal. The false Prophet had beguiled them into setting no sentry.

"Strike! Strike!" the Christians were riding them down in a twinkling; a dozen were crushed before they could rise from the ground; others drew, and made some slight defence; more stood dazed, and while calling on Allah were made prisoners. Richard was reining in Rollo, and growling that he had not struck a single fair blow, when a cry from Herbert startled him.

"By the Ma.s.s! Look! Hossein, as I am a sinner!"

And Richard saw before his eyes a white-robed, catlike Arab, swinging upon a picketed chestnut charger. No need to glance twice to know the traitor--Longsword could have singled his face from ten thousand. But as he gazed a flash of the Arab's dagger had cut the lariat;--a whistle to the high-bred desert steed, and the splendid creature shot away, fleet as a startled hart.

"For the love of G.o.d, shoot down the horse!" thundered Richard, making Rollo leap under the spur. Herbert levelled, and sent a crossbow bolt.

Too hasty,--long range, and he missed. And every twinkling was making the distance grow long between the rider in the white dress and the Christians.

"Chase! Ride!" rang Longsword's command. "A hundred byzants to take him alive!" But Rollo himself was soon heading all the forty. Never had Richard ridden as now, never had Rollo felt the spur so deep; but the speed of Borak, steed of the lightning, was in the mount of Hossein. Seldom had Rollo so nearly met his match. Almost before one dreamt it, the forty were specks in the rear.

"Faster, faster, dear Rollo!" urged Richard, for his voice was ever the keenest spur to the great brute. And Rollo indeed ran faster, but the desert steed faster too; and for a long time the distance between neither waxed nor waned. Grove, thicket, gully, fallen log (for their way lay along none the most beaten road), the kind Powers led them past, when a stumble would have dashed rider and steed to certain death. Richard pressed Rollo again, and the huge horse putting forth all his powers began slowly as a snail, yet steadily, to gain on the Arabian. For some moments they raced thus; then the road became clearer, shut in on either side by trees that arched down, and slapped their green banners in the riders' faces. Who recked? Already Richard could see Hossein swaying in the saddle, clearly deliberating whether he could slacken to dismount and speed up the hillside. But the Arabian was running for dear life now, and though his rider tugged at the bit, he hardly swerved. Rollo, black monster, was coming up bound upon bound. Richard dropped his lance into rest. He would have Hossein at mercy before one could say three _Credos_. Was his hand steady enough to pin the Arab through the thigh where flesh was thick, and so take him prisoner? For Hossein's life would be precious--for a while.

"Ah, traitor!" cried Longsword in Arabic, "call on Allah now!"

The only answer was a fresh bound from the chestnut charger, a final burst of speed that carried him ahead for a moment. Then the steady gallop of Rollo told once more--another furlong, and the Ismaelian would face his doom.

"_La ilaha ill' Allah!_" broke forth from the fugitive; and half involuntarily Richard drew rein, while the prey nigh in his hands flew onward. For lo! in the road directly ahead was a company--horse and foot, in Oriental dress,--advancing rapidly, not a bowshot away!

Richard wavered for an instant. He saw a horseman in flashing armor and blood-red turban come p.r.i.c.king toward them. Almost ere the thought could speed through his mind, Hossein was among the newcomers, and a score more came dashing forward to confront the solitary Christian. A glance back--not one of his men in sight! Rollo blown and panting!

Escape up the hillside--impossible!--he in armor, and the Moslems nimble as rats!

"G.o.d wills it!" Richard's soul cried. "This is the good fortune; to ride down the foe, fight valiantly, die gallantly, and then peace--rest--peace!" He threw down the lance, and drew forth Trenchefer. "The last time you will strike for a Longsword, good friend!" quoth he, with a loving eye on the keen blade, "and you shall not strike in vain!" Then he pressed Rollo once more, "On again, my horse!" And the huge brute caught the hard road under his hoofs and went forward at a headlong pace. Richard could see the leading warrior, a splendid figure on his steed, coming on with drawn cimeter--a n.o.ble comrade in death! He would strike him first. And Richard made Trenchefer dance high while he flew.

"G.o.d wills it! St. Julien and Mary Kurkuas!"

So the woods rang with his battle-shout. He could see the Moslems, staring half amazed, as he came on headlong, one against their scores; saw bows bend; heard the arrows scream past. The leader he had singled as his prey was dashing down the road to meet him. How fair a combat!

"G.o.d wills it! St. Julien and Mary Kurkuas!" Richard gave it as his last battle-cry, and swung Trenchefer to beat through the Moslem's guard; when lo! the strange warrior had dropped cimeter and shield--reined short--and from him, as if by echo, there came: "Mary Kurkuas! _Allah akhbar_, you are Richard Longsword!" And Richard let Trenchefer clatter in the dust. "Musa! my brother!"

Then, all in armor as they were, they flung their mailed arms about one another for very joy, and cried, shedding great tears, as do only strong men when moved too deep for speech. For a moment the other Moslems, as they swarmed about, were ready to run Richard through, thinking he had taken their chief captive by some magic art. But Musa motioned them aside. When the two again found words, the first question from the Spaniard was, "And how is it with the Star of the Greeks?" But at this, the face of Richard grew dark.