"_La ilaha ill' Allah! La ilaha ill' Allah!_"

"Bear up, Christians! This is the last charge!" urged Gaston of Bearn, but more than brave words were needed to turn that blast. The "devoted" smote the Frankish spear hedge, and for the first time that day broke through it. The Holy Lance went down under twenty slain; the Christian war-cry was drowned by the howl of the Ismaelians: "_Allah akhbar!_ Victory! Victory!" As out of a dream, Richard saw that the battle had swept round him, with only hostile faces on every side. But he had no time to think of peril; for he was face to face again with Iftikhar Eddauleh himself, and at the sight he sent Rollo straight against the grand prior.

"Again! Cid Iftikhar, let G.o.d judge between us!" he cried. But the Ismaelian avoided the shock, swerving to one side, and answered: "Fool! Allah has already judged! Take him prisoner, slaves! Pluck him from his horse!"

Nothing easy; for though twenty of the "devoted" leaped to the ground to do as bidden, they found nothing sweet in the taste of Trenchefer.

Richard put the face of Mary Kurkuas before his eyes while he fought: should he never see her more? The thought made his arm strong as forged steel. But just as the Ismaelians were crying to their lord that the terrible Frank could never be taken alive, and begging to use their swords, a blow of a mace crushed Longsword's right shoulder. His arm sank at his side, and Trenchefer nigh dropped from the numbed fingers. He saved the sword with his left hand, casting away the shield.

"Yours! Seize! Bind!" exhorted Iftikhar. Yet even now there was a struggle, for Rollo that loved his master well made his great hoofs fly as he plunged and reared, and Richard's left arm dealt no weak blow.

"Cowards!" thundered the grand prior; "let me curb in the horse!" But while he pressed nearer, a terrible howl of dread went up from the "devoted" themselves.

"Allah save us! All is lost! The Christians conquer!"

And as Iftikhar and Richard looked about them they saw the "battles"

of Tancred and G.o.dfrey, that had not endured the Ismaelian's charge, bearing down in serried line to drive this last Moslem squadron from the field.

"Turn, Iftikhar Eddauleh!" Louis de Valmont's voice was ringing, "turn, and fight!" But Iftikhar only gave a bitter curse, and spurred away among his men. Adhemar's division had been shattered, not dispersed. The Christians were pressing in on all sides. The cry was spreading that Kilidge Arslan was in flight. The Franks saw Iftikhar re-forming his "devoted"--much less than twelve thousand now, though none had fled away; they half heard the imprecation he called upon them if they rode in vain. They formed, they charged; each rider a demon upon a steed possessed. They cast away their lives with an awful gladness. But the Christian spear wall was as iron, though pressed by springing steel. There was no other charge. Where the Ismaelians struck, they fought; where they fought, they died; and where they died, no other Moslems leaped to take their place. The thunderbolt had fallen--the storm had pa.s.sed!

And now praised be G.o.d the Son, and Mary ever Blessed! The infidels were become as stubble to Prince Tancred's sword, and to Bohemond, Hugh, and G.o.dfrey. Loud and victorious sounded now the chant, ever repeated:--

"Let G.o.d arise; let His enemies be scattered!"

And scattered they were! "How is it, Lord?" said the chronicler; "how dare men say that it was not Thy doings that the great host of Kerbogha melted like the spring snows before us, when we were weak with famine, and one where they were three? How, save by Thy help, did our poor jaded steeds fly like eagles after their Arabs, and overtake those chargers swifter than the lightnings? How, save by Thy grace, did Prince Tancred ride alone against an hundred, and see them flee as leaves before the gale?" How? The whole army knew, for the age of doubting had not come.

"Not unto us, Lord; not unto us! But unto Thy name be the glory!" was the prayer of Adhemar, as he stood with his priests about him, while far to the eastward and northward drifted the rout and pursuing. For there was no valor in the Moslems now. Their chiefs fled swiftest of all; one way Kerbogha, another Dekak of Damascus, another Kilidge Arslan. And their camp with a treasure worth half the wealth of France, and swarming with eunuchs and harem women, had become a spoil to the servants of G.o.d and His Christ. The thought however was not of spoil, but of pursuit and vengeance. Loudest of all among the priests sounded the voice of Sebastian, urging on the warriors.

"The heathen are sunk down into the pit that they made; in the net which they made is their own foot taken! Pursue--follow after; tarry not; for this is the acceptable day of the Lord--the day when one of you shall chase a thousand; when you shall smite the infidels as Israel smote Amalek--man and woman, infant and suckling, ox and sheep, camel and a.s.s! Destroy, let not one escape!"

Fierce and unflagging the pursuit. Tancred mounted his footmen as swiftly as they could capture horses, and hunted the fleeing Moslems over plain and mountain. Here and there the despairing Turks and Arabians turned like beasts at bay when the terrible Franks crashed on them. But there was no strength left in a Moslem's arm. Doom--doom against the servants of the Prophet had been decreed by the stars--not the might of all Islam could turn back the stroke of fate. Here and there the raging Christians came on foes who cast down the useless weapons, and stretching out their hands, cried in a tongue which all knew: "Quarter! Mercy!" But they had better pleaded with stones; for that day there was none of mercy. The battle had begun with the morning; the shadows were lengthening on the hills when Tancred turned back his pursuers near Harin, halfway to Aleppo, and rode back toward Antioch, still galloping, for fear his comrades had squandered all the spoil.

Long before the last chase was ended, Richard Longsword had been borne to the city. Despite his crushed shoulder and lifeless arm, he had urged on Rollo to the pursuit, almost hoping that he would meet Iftikhar once more; though how, all maimed, he could have fought the Ismaelian, St. Michael only knew. He saw the last struggle around the encampment of Kerbogha, where the camp-followers tried to defend the palisade and were destroyed by firing the barrier; he saw the Christians dragging out the spoil,--rarest silk and webs of Ind, and unpriced gems; fifteen thousand sumpter camels; howling slave girls; shivering servants. He knew that the great battle, the battle against the infidel he and his fellows had dreamed of so long, had been fought, and won; and that the tale of the victory would fly from Britain to Tartary. And yet he half felt a sense of sadness: he had met Iftikhar Eddauleh face to face, and yet the Ismaelian lived. They told him that when the last charge failed Iftikhar had turned his steed's head and ridden away, joining Kerbogha and the fleeing emirs and _atabegs_. Then Richard breathed a deep curse; for he knew, though no clear reason came, that the grand prior, coward though his flight had proven him, would in some way work great ill either to himself or those he loved. He bade the St. Julieners search the camp to find if Mary Kurkuas and Musa had been present at the battle. No trace; he was at once saddened and relieved. Then, just as the first procession of triumph, laden with dainties and rich wines from the camp for the starving city-folk, was preparing to enter Antioch, the Norman felt of a sudden the firm earth whirling, and as his sight dimmed, the din in his ears drowned all the _Glorias_ and _Te Deums_ of the rejoicing mult.i.tude. Herbert saw him reel on Rollo's back, and caught him just as he dropped to the earth. Sebastian loosed his casque--found it full of blood; a dervish's blade had cleft to the bone. His shoulder was crushed; from ten more spots he was bleeding. The St. Julieners laid their baron on a litter of lances and bore him to the city. Nor did Richard know aught more for many days.

CHAPTER XLII

HOW MORGIANA WOUND HER LAST SPELL

Wrong had been done Iftikhar, when the Franks boasted he had fled headlong with Kerbogha and his coward _atabegs_. Had all his peers in the Moslem host fought as he, there might have been fewer Christian _Glorias_. Where death was thickest he had sought it. Under his cimeter had sped many a Frankish life. At the end he had led the final charge of his "devoted," maddest rider in all that headlong band. But doom had been against him; the Ismaelians had died where they could not conquer. Iftikhar, escaping fifty deaths, had thrown himself into a band of flying Turkomans, beseeching, threatening, adjuring, to make them turn for a last stand. One howl met his prayer.

"Fate is against us! Flee! Flee! Allah aids the Franks!"

He struck the fugitives with his cimeter; they fled more swiftly. He thrust his beast across their path; the good Arabian was nigh swept down in the vortex of the panic. Panic everywhere, the Franks flying after, each Christian a raging jinn whose joy was slaying.

Then at last Iftikhar knew he could do no more, and he turned the head of his wounded steed to ride on the Christian lances. But just as he was casting shield away, that death might light more quickly, the hand of a strange rider plucked his saddle rein, and before the grand prior could strike at the unknown, Zeyneb's voice sounded in his ears above the "_Montjoye!_" of the onrushing French:

"What, Cid? You ride to death?"

"Unhand!" thundered Iftikhar, "all is lost! I know how to die!"

But Zeyneb with a wondrous strength had tugged at the bits and swung the charger's head; and close by, the Egyptian saw another rider, unarmored, in a flowing dress,--but the face was turned from him.

"You are mad, lord!" cried Zeyneb. "Do not cast yourself away. Fate will change, Allah willing!"

Then, as Iftikhar struggled to turn, a squadron of flying Persian light horse struck them, and swept the three riders away perforce in its flight.

"Faster, faster!" the Persians were shrieking; "the Franks! Their horses are vultures! their strength as of monsters!"

Iftikhar cursed while he strove vainly to escape them and ride against the pursuers.

"Fools, sons of pigs and Jews!" roared he; "see, scarce ten men follow, and you an hundred. Turn; ride them down!"

"They are ten sheytans," yelled the rest, spurring harder. "Speed, brothers, speed!"

Iftikhar glanced back. Behind him flew De Valmont and Tancred, who knew him by his armor, and taunted:--

"Face to face, Cid Iftikhar; did you fly thus at Palermo?"

But the Persians p.r.i.c.ked their beasts to a headlong gallop; the Franks rode down some, and slew them; the rest made their escape. When the Christians left the chase in the evening, Iftikhar found himself with a wounded and weary steed upon the bare Syrian hill slope, with only Zeyneb for escort. The strangely dressed rider he had noticed, followed half an arrow flight behind; but the Egyptian gave little heed. Hardly had he drawn rein before another squadron of breathless riders joined him, their horses' flanks in blood and foam. Their chief was Kerbogha, master that morning of two hundred thousand sword-hands, master that night of scarce fifty. Iftikhar bowed his casque in gloomy salutation, but the lord of Mosul did not return it.

"Cid Iftikhar," came his words, cold as ice, "we have played our chess-game with fortune. Mated! and we play no more! Forget that I have known you!"

"I do not understand, my lord!" protested Iftikhar, his color rising.

"Clearer, then," and Kerbogha peered backward, lest the Frankish banners tossed again in the gloaming. "We went to Antioch first to crush the Franks, but also to gather, unhindered and unsuspected, an army to grind Barkyarok and the Kalif. We gathered the army. Where it is now, demand of the winds and the blood-red plain! Our plot is ended. Barkyarok will suspect. Let Ha.s.san Sabah gain his empire in his own way. I must save myself by forswearing the Ismaelians and be all loyalty to the arch-sultan. As for you, let Allah save or slay, you are neither friend nor foe to me. Go your way; forget me, as I forget you!"

"But our oaths--our pledge of comradeship till death!" urged Iftikhar, in rising wrath.

"Death? A hundred thousand dead Moslems have wiped out the bond.

Cursed be the day I listened to your plots!"

"Then answer sword to sword!" raged the Egyptian, in frenzy, and ready to join mortal grapple. But a shout from the emir's escort sent Kerbogha fleeing away, without so much as replying.

"The Franks! They follow! Flight, flight!"

A false alarm, but the lord of Mosul and his fifty had vanished in the thickening twilight; his speed such that the hoof-beats were soon faint in the distance. Iftikhar looked about him. The night was sowing the stars. The young moon was shining with its feathery crescent. Far and wide stretched the desolate hills, fast fading into one black waste. Lost! the battle lost! the hope of empire lost! the vengeance on Richard lost! the love of Mary Kurkuas lost! He had only a wounded horse, his cimeter, and his arms. That morning twelve thousand men would have died for him at his nod. Yes, and had died! It was the stroke of doom, the doom that had been written a million years, before Allah called the heavens out of smoke, the earth out of darkness; and there was no escaping. The Christians had turned back to Antioch, but Iftikhar knew where to find them. He could ride back on his tracks, enter their camp, slay seven men before dying himself, and give the lie to the taunts of De Valmont and Tancred. So doing he would save one last treasure--his honor.

"Zeyneb!" he said sternly, "go your way. You are at the end of your service. I must ride to Antioch."

"And why to Antioch, Cid?"

"To win back the honor you stole from me."

Iftikhar had leaped to the ground to tighten his girths, when the strange rider came beside him and dismounted. As he rose from his task, he saw a veiled woman facing him; and while he started and trembled, she swept the veil from her face. Morgiana standing in the moonlight!