Iftikhar pointed toward the door with his cimeter. "I made truce with you," he retorted defiantly, "not with _her_." And he glared madly at the Greek. "Away, or the Soudanese strike off your head!"

The Spaniard calmly let his weapon sink to the pavement, and smiled as he leaned upon it. "Good emir, we have our hands busy--as Allah knows--to defend _El Kuds_. Do we well to nurse private l.u.s.ts and hates, while the jewel of Islam trembles in the balance?"

"Off!" came the hot reply. "Off, or you die this instant!"

Musa lifted his eyes from the floor, and gave the Egyptian glance for glance. "I do well to tremble!" was his answer, the voice higher now, with a ring of harshness. "I do well to tremble! Remember the tourney at Palermo, my lord emir! Was it Iftikhar Eddauleh who crowned his turban with the prize?" And he stood on guard across the door.

"Remember a night like this at Monreale."

The face of Iftikhar was black with his fury. For an instant there was a grating in his throat, thickening every word. "_Ya!_ Dogs from Nubia, smite this mutineer down! Hew him down, or I hang you all!"

The Soudanese stared at him, rolling the whites of their great eyes, but not a spiked flail rose, not a foot crossed the threshold.

"Are you, too, rebels?" howled the Egyptian, his breath coming fast.

Musa had turned to the fifty.

"Hear you, Moslems. In an hour like this, with the Sacred City at stake, shall your emir or another dip hands in a private quarrel? What do I, save defend my own house, and my own harem? Have I not wrought on the walls manfully as Iftikhar? Dare any deny it?"

A shout came from the Soudanese:--

"You say well. You have been the sword and shield of Jerusalem, no less than the emir!"

"Hounds of Eblees! Will you not hew him down?" raged Iftikhar.

A gray-headed negro, captain of the fifty, fell on his knees before the Egyptian. "Cid, command, and we follow through the Christian camp; but we are the slaves of Kalif Mustaali, Commander of the Faithful, not yours for private feud. We cannot obey."

"Traitors!" the veins in Iftikhar's forehead were swollen now. "Know that this is no slave of Musa, son of Abdallah, but the wife of Richard Longsword, a chief of the Franks. You aid the infidels in saving!" But the Soudanese did not stir.

"And where reads Al Koran," retorted Musa, "'Thou shalt possess thyself of thine enemy's wedded wife'? For the sake of peace and El Islam leave the Greek till the siege be ended."

"For the sake of El Islam suffer me to depart with her unhindered."

Iftikhar cast the woman across his left arm as though a toy, and swinging his blade, sprang toward the portal.

"Make way!" rang his last warning.

"Then let Allah judge the wrong!"

Musa was before the entrance, his cimeter waving. Iftikhar knew well he had no light combat in store. He cast Mary from him as he might a stone, and sprang to his work.

"I am not balked, as at Monreale!" he hissed from his teeth.

"No, _Bismillah_! I can kill you now!" flew the answer.

The steels rang sharp, stroke on stroke. Musa was without armor; but he had torn his cloak from his shoulders and covered his left arm. The cimeters were of equal length, and every time they clashed there flashed fire. Musa sprang aside from the doorway at the first blow, and worked his way into the middle of the court, where the light was stronger and there was ample s.p.a.ce. This was no duel with long swords, as between Richard and Louis, where sledge-hammer strength was victor.

The Spaniard's blade was both sword and shield. Again and again the Egyptian gave a sweeping stroke, a lunge, and felt his "Damascus"

parried by the turn of a wrist, or to pierce only the air. Well that he wore armor! Time and again Musa's weapon clashed on his hauberk, making the chain mail ring and its wearer reel. Click, click, sang the blades, and so the two fought on.

"_Allah!_" the Soudanese would cry every time the Spaniard seemed ended by some downright stroke. Yet he never bled, but paid blow for blow. It was a marvel to see them. What Musa lost for lack of arms, was half returned in nimbleness. The Egyptian twice staggered in his armor, twice recovered. Musa had p.r.i.c.ked him upon the neck, and the blood was running over the gilded shirt. But the fury of a thousand jinns was in his arm; still he fought.

Mary stood against the pillar by the upper stair, watching the combat as if through a mist. Deeds and words had flown too fast for catching.

She was nigh asking herself: "Why this stamping? Why this ring of steel? What is this to me?" She saw Iftikhar shoot his point squarely toward the Spaniard's breast. Before the horror could be felt, Musa had doubled like a snake. The blade flew over him. At his counter-stroke there was more blood on the Egyptian's cheek. For an instant he winced, then rushed to the attack with redoubled fury.

Twice more around the court they fought. And then there was a strange thing: for Morgiana, with hair flying and eyes bright as meteors, sped down the stairs. One moment she stood, as if terror froze her; then with a fearful moan ran straight toward the fighters. "As Allah lives, you shall not slay Iftikhar!" she shrieked, and s.n.a.t.c.hed Musa behind, holding fast by the girdle. Only for an instant, for the Spaniard dashed her from him with a fist. But she was back, s.n.a.t.c.hed again, and clung, despite the blows, while all the time Iftikhar pressed harder.

"Die you, die we, but not Iftikhar!" she screamed once more. Another twinkling, and the emir would have driven home. But in that twinkling the Greek found strength and wit. The Mother of G.o.d doubtless sped down the strength by which she tore loose Morgiana's hold. The Arabian writhed in her tight embrace; struggled with feet, nails, teeth, like a frenzied tigress at bay. "Allah! Allah!" came her moan; "you shall not, you must not, hold me! Let us all die, but not Iftikhar! Not he!

None, none shall kill him!"

Mary trembled at the horror graven on Morgiana's face; but her arms held strong as steel.

"Release! Release!" pleaded Morgiana, piteously now; "he is my all, my all. Not Allah's self shall kill him!"

But Mary shut her eyes and held tighter. The Arabian might smite, bite, tear; she could not shake that hold. Only the terrible monotony of the combat seemed unending. Click--click--went the blades; the two were still fighting. How much longer could she hold fast? A cry of terror from Morgiana made her fingers weaken. The Arabian slipped from them at a bound.

"Allah! He reels!"

Morgiana had flown to pluck the Spaniard's girdle. Too late! The Greek saw Iftikhar tottering as the tall pine totters at its fall. And just as Morgiana touched Musa, his long blade swept down the Egyptian's guard, and caught the neck just above the mail. There was a thundering shout from the Soudanese. Iftikhar slipped, made one faint effort to lift his point; slipped once more; fell with clash of armor; and with a fearful cry his wild spirit sped--whither? G.o.d is not judged.

There was silence,--silence in which they heard the slow night wind creeping by in the street. Iftikhar had stretched his length. He lay without stir or groan. Morgiana had recoiled from Musa as if from the death angel. Mary saw her standing motionless as the stucco pillar, looking upon the face of the dead. The Spaniard, steaming and panting, pressed his red blade into the sheath, and caught at a pillar, saying never a word. Then when the stillness had grown long, Morgiana gave a little cry and sigh, more of surprise than of dread, and stepped softly until she stood close beside the dead. Iftikhar's casque had fallen from his head; his face was fixed in an awful smile; he looked straight upward with gla.s.sy eyes and opened teeth. When Morgiana gazed down upon him, she was still once more. Then came a scream of agony.

She fell upon her knees; she lifted that motionless head. Though the blood flowed from the great wound all over her delicate hands, she tore loose the hauberk, and laid the head in her lap, staring hungrily for some sign.

"Iftikhar! Iftikhar!" she cried, as if perforce to make the deaf ears hear. "Do you not see? Do you not know? It is I, Morgiana, your blue-eyed maid of Yemen, who have toiled for you, grieved for you, joyed for you,--yes, will die for you! Speak! Speak one word, and say you are still here!"

She raised her head as if to listen for the voice that would never come.

"O Iftikhar, soul of my soul, light of my eyes, joy of my joy! have you not one word for me,--for me who have clung fast to you these many years through all? Speak, though it be but to curse me! Speak, though it be of love for the Greek! You will not, cannot, go out now and leave me here alone,--alone, alone!"

No answer. Mary heard her own heart-beats, the crooning of the wind in the streets, the deep breaths of Musa.

Suddenly Morgiana let the limp head fall, and leaped to her feet, blood-stains on dress and hands and face.

"Dead!" she cried; "dead!" casting toward Mary a look so terrible that the Greek drew back. "Dead! Gone forever! Forever, forever!" And Morgiana's voice died away as if far off into the coming ages. Then once more she fell upon the dead form, kissed the speechless lips, and cooed into the deaf ear, saying sweet and pleasant things as in the lovers' days of long ago. But all the soft words ended in a cry of agony. Again she rose and faced Musa and the Greek.

"In Allah's name be you cursed! You for your strength, and you for your beauty! For the beauty that stole Iftikhar from me,--that led him to ruin, to death,--cursed, ten thousand times! May the jinns of evil crush you! May all Gehenna's fires wither you! May the Most High forget you from His mercy--" Mary was sobbing now:--

"Sweet sister, pity me," was her plea. "What have I done? Forget the Egyptian. How has he paid back your great love for him? He was unworthy of such love." But Morgiana only tossed her blood-stained arms on high.

"Fool, fool; am I not a woman? Did I love him by my reason? Worthy or unworthy, I _have_ loved him. Enough!"

She tore at her bosom; drew forth a tiny silver vial. It was at her lips before Musa could seize it.

"Poison!" shouted he.

The face of the Arabian turned livid; her eyes wandered. "He is mine; mine! Beyond the stars, where no Christian may come with her beauty!

Beyond the stars, where is Paradise and rest!"

She fell upon Iftikhar's dead form; one paroxysm, one groan; her hand was resting on the emir's face, her lips close to his. Musa laid his hand above her heart, drew it back and said nothing. Then again a long silence, while he examined the silver vial.

"Strychnine," he said softly; "the Egyptians often use it. Swifter than a falling star."

Mary buried her face in her hands, and swayed while she sobbed in her fathomless grief. "Holy St. Theodore, have mercy; Mother of G.o.d, have mercy; Jesus Christ, have mercy! It is my fault--mine! I cannot bear it!"