whistling clouds, and Zenghi’s chanting devils swarmed up the walls. We beat them back until our swords were broken, our mail hung in bloody tatters, and our arms were dead with weariness. For a month we kept Zenghi at bay, waiting for Count Joscelin, but he never came.
“It was on the morning of December 23rd that the rams and engines made a great breach in the outer wall, and the Moslems came through like a river bursting through a dam. The defenders died like flies along the broken ramparts, but human power could not stem that tide. The memluks rode into the streets and the battle became a massacre. The Turkish sword knew no mercy. Priests died at their altars, women in their courtyards, children at their play. Bodies choked the streets, the gutters ran crimson, and through it all rode Zenghi on his black stallion like a phantom of Death.”
“Yet you escaped?”
The cold gray eyes became more somber.
“I had a small band of men-at-arms. When I was dashed senseless from my saddle by a Turkish mace, they took me up and rode for the western gate. Most of them died in the winding streets, but the survivors brought me to safety. When I recovered my senses the city lay far behind me.
“But I rode back.” The speaker seemed to have forgotten his audience. His eyes were distant, withdrawn; his bearded chin rested on his mailed fist; he seemed to be speaking to himself. “Aye, I had ridden into the teeth of hell itself. But I met a servant, fallen death-stricken among the straggling fugitives, and ere he died he told me that she whom I sought was dead – struck down by a memluk’s scimitar.”
Shaking his iron-clad shoulders he roused himself as from a bitter revery. His eyes grew cold and hard again; the harsh timbre re-entered his voice.
“Two years have seen a great change in Edessa, I hear. Zenghi rebuilt the walls and has made it one of his strongest holds. Our hold on the land is crumbling and tearing away. With a little aid, Zenghi will surge over Outremer and obliterate all vestiges of Christendom.”
“That aid may come from the north,” muttered a bearded man-at-arms. “I was in the train of the barons who marched with John Comnene when Zenghi outmaneuvered him. The emperor has no love for us.”
“Bah! He is at least a Christian,” laughed the man who called himself d’Ibelin, running his restless fingers through his clustering golden locks.
Du Courcey’s cold eyes narrowed suddenly as they rested on a heavy golden ring of curious design on the other’s finger, but he said nothing.
Heedless of the intensity of the Norman’s stare, d’Ibelin rose and tossed a coin on the table to pay his reckoning. With a careless word of farewell to the idlers he rose and strode out of the inn with a clanking of armor. The men inside heard him shouting impatiently for his horse. And Sir Miles du Courcey rose, took up shield and helmet, and followed.
The man known as d’Ibelin had covered perhaps a half-mile, and the castle on the hill was but a faint bulk behind him, gemmed by a few points of light, when a drum of hoofs made him wheel with a guttural oath that was not French. In the dim starlight he made out the form of his recent inn companion, and he laid hand on his jeweled hilt. Du Courcey drew up beside him and spoke to the grimly silent figure.
“Antioch lies the other way, good sir. Perhaps you have taken the wrong road by mischance. Three hours’ ride in this direction will bring you into Saracen territory.”
“Friend,” retorted the other, “I have not asked your advice concerning my road. Whether I go east or west is scarcely your affair.”
“As vassal to the prince of Antioch it is my affair to inquire into suspicious actions within his domain. When I see a man traveling under false pretenses, with a Saracen ring on his finger, riding by night toward the border, it seems suspicious enough for me to make inquiries.”
“I can explain my actions if I see fit,” bruskly answered d’Ibelin, “but these insulting accusations I will answer at the sword’s point. What mean you by false pretensions?”
“You are not Roger d’Ibelin. You are not even a Frenchman.”
“No?” A sneer rasped in the other’s voice as he slipped his sword from its sheath.
“No. I have been to Constantinople, and seen the northern mercenaries who serve the Greek emperor. I can not forget your hawk face. You are John Comnene’s spy – Wulfgar Edric’s son, a captain in the Varangian Guard.”
A wild beast snarl burst from the masquerader’s lips and his horse screamed and leaped convulsively as he struck in the spurs, throwing all his frame behind his sword arm as the beast plunged. But du Courcey was too seasoned a fighter to be caught so easily. With a wrench of his rein he brought his steed round, rearing. The Varangian’s frantic horse plunged past, and the whistling sword struck fire from the Norman’s lifted shield. With a furious yell the fierce Norman wheeled again to the assault, and the horses reared together while the swords of their riders hissed, circled in flashing arcs, and fell with ringing clash on mail-links or shield.
The men fought in grim silence, save for the panting of straining effort, but the clangor of their swords awoke the still night and sparks flew as from a blacksmith’s anvil. Then with a deafening crash a broadsword shattered a helmet and splintered the skull within. There followed a loud clash of armor as the loser fell heavily from his saddle. A riderless horse galloped away, and the conqueror, shaking the sweat from his eyes, dismounted and bent above the motionless steel-clad figure.
IV
On the road that leads south from Edessa to Rakka, the Moslem host lay encamped, the lines of gay-colored pavilions spread out in the plains. It was a leisurely march, with wagons, luxurious equipment, and whole households with women and slaves. After two years in Edessa the Atabeg of Mosul was returning to his capital by the way of Rakka. Fires glimmered in the gathering dusk where the first stars were peeping; lutes twanged and voices were lifted in song and laughter about the cooking-pots.
Before Zenghi, playing at chess with his friend and chronicler, the Arab Ousama of Sheyzar, came the eunuch Yaruktash, who salaamed low and in his squeaky voice intoned, “Oh, Lion of Islam, an emir of the infidels desires audience with thee – the captain of the Greeks who is called Wulfgar Edric’s son. The chief Il-Ghazi and his memluks came upon him, riding alone, and would have slain him but he threw up his arm and on his hand they saw the ring thou gavest the emperor as a secret sign for his messengers.”
Zenghi tugged his gray-shot black beard and grinned, well pleased.
“Let him be brought before me.” The slave bowed and withdrew.
To Ousama, Zenghi said, “Allah, what dogs are these Christians, who betray and cut one another’s throats for the promise of gold or land!”
“Is it well to trust such a man?” queried Ousama. “If he will betray his kind, he will surely betray you if he may.”
“May I eat pork if I trust him,” retorted Zenghi, moving a chessman with a jewelled finger. “As I move this pawn I will move the dog-emperor of the Greeks. With his aid I will crack the kings of Outremer like nutshells. I have promised him their seaports, and he will keep his promises until he thinks his prizes are in his hands. Ha! Not towns but the sword-edge I will give him. What we take together shall be mine, nor will that suffice me. By Allah, not Mesopotamia, nor Syria, nor all Asia Minor is enough! I will cross the Hellespont! I will ride my stallion through the palaces on the Golden Horn! Frankistan herself shall tremble before me!”
The impact of his voice was like that of a harsh-throated trumpet, almost stunning the hearers with its dynamic intensity. His eyes blazed, his fingers knotted like iron on the chessboard.
“You are old, Zenghi,” warned the cautious Arab. “You have done much. Is there no limit to your ambitions?”
“Aye!” laughed the Turk. “The horn of the moon and the points of the stars! Old? Eleven years older than thyself, and younger in spirit than thou wert ever. My thews are steel, my heart is fire, my wits keener even than on the day I broke ibn Sadaka beside the Nile and set my feet on the shining stairs of glory! Peace, here comes the Frank.”
A small boy of about eight years of age, sitting cross-legged on a cushion near the edge of the dais whereon lay
