Tarzan, Lord of the Jungle

at the castle gate, now fully upon the alert, stood ready with the portcullis raised as the marshal instructed them, so that in the event that those who had ridden out should be hard pressed upon their return by an enemy at their rear they could still find sanctuary within the ballium. The plan was, in such event, to lower the portcullis behind the men of the Sepulcher and in the faces of the pursuing Saracens, for that an enemy must be such was a forgone conclusion⁠—had not they and their ancestors waited for near seven and a half centuries now for this momentarily expected assault? They wondered if it really had come at last.

While they discussed the question Ibn Jad watched them from a concealing clump of bushes a few yards away.

The wily Beduin knew the purpose of that portcullis and he was trying to plan best how he might enter the enclosure beyond before it could be dropped before his face. At last he found a plan and smiled. He beckoned three men to come close and into their ears he whispered that which he had in mind.

There were four men-at-arms ready to drop the portcullis at the psychological moment and all four of them stood in plain sight of Ibn Jad and the three that were beside him. Carefully, cautiously, noiselessly the four Arab raised their ancient matchlocks and took careful aim.

“Now!” whispered Ibn Jad and four matchlocks belched forth flame and black powder and slugs of lead.

The four men-at-arms dropped to the stone flagging and Ibn Jad and all his followers raced forward and stood within the ballium of the castle of King Bohun. Before them, across the ballium, was another gate and a broad moat, but the drawbridge was lowered, the portcullis raised and the gateway unguarded.

The marshal and his followers had ridden unhindered into the ballium of the outer barbican and there they had found all its defenders lying in their own blood, even to the little squire of the old knight who should have watched the gate and did not.

One of the men-at-arms still lived and in his dying breath he gasped the terrible truth. The Saracens had come at last!

“Where are they?” demanded the marshal.

“Didst thou not see them, sir?” asked the dying man. “They marched down the road toward the castle.”

“Impossible!” cried the marshal. “We didst but ride along that very road and saw no one.”

“They marched down toward the castle,” gasped the man.

The marshal knit his brows. “Were there many?” he demanded.

“There are few,” replied the man-at-arms. “It was but the advance guard of the armies of the sultan.”

Just then the volley that laid low the four warders at the castle gate crashed upon the ears of the marshal and his men.

“ ’Ods blud!” he cried.

“They must have hid themselves in the bush as we passed,” exclaimed a knight at the marshal’s side, “for of a surety they be there and we be here and there be but one road between.”

“There be but four men at the castle gate,” said the marshal, “and I did bid them keep the ’cullis up till we returned. God pity me! I have given over the Sepulcher to the Saracens. Slay me, Sir Morley!”

“Nay, man! We need every lance and sword and crossbow that we may command. This be no time to think of taking thy life when thou canst give it to Our Lord Jesus in defense of His Sepulcher against the infidels!”

“Thou art right, Morley,” cried the marshal. “Remain you here, then, with six men and hold this gate. I shall return with the others and give battle at the castle!”

But when the marshal came again to the castle gate he found the portcullis down and a dark-faced, bearded Saracen glaring at him through the iron bars. The marshal at once ordered the crossbowmen to shoot the fellow down, but as they raised their weapons to their shoulder there was a loud explosion that almost deafened them and flame leaped from a strange thing that the Saracen held against his shoulder and pointed at them. One of the crossbowmen screamed and lunged forward upon his face and the others turned and fled.

They were brave men in the face of dangers that were natural and to be expected, but in the presence of the supernatural, the weird, the uncanny, they reacted as most men do, and what could have been more weird than death leaping in flame and with a great noise through space to strike their fellow down?

But Sir Bulland, the marshal, was a knight of the Sepulcher. He might wish to run away fully as much as the simple and lowly men-at-arms, but there was something that held him there that was more potent than fear of death. It is called Honor.

Sir Bulland could not run away and so he sat there on his great horse and challenged the Saracens to mortal combat; challenged them to send their doughtiest sir knight to meet him and thus decide who should hold the gate.

But the Arab already held it. Furthermore they did not understand him. In addition to all this they were without honor as Sir Bulland knew it, and perhaps as anyone other than a Beduin knows it, and would but have laughed at his silly suggestion.

One thing they did know⁠—two things they knew⁠—that he was a Nasrany and that he was unarmed. They did not count his great lance and his sword as weapons, for he could not reach them with either. So one of them took careful aim and shot Sir Bulland through his chain mail where it covered his noble and chivalrous heart.

Ibn Jad had the run of the castle of King Bohun and he was sure that he had discovered the fabled City of Nimmr that the sahar had told him of. He herded together the women and children and the few men that remained and held them under guard. For a while he was minded to slay them,