Sword Woman and Other Historical Adventures

Untitled Fragment (The Track of Bohemund)

As the moon glided from behind a mass of fleecy clouds, etching the shadows of the woods in a silvery glow, the man sprang into a dark clump of bushes, like a hunted thing that fears the disclosing light. As a clink of shod hoofs came plainly to him, he drew further back into his covert, scarcely daring to breathe. In the silence a nightbird called sleepily, and he heard, in the distance, the lazy lap of waters against the shore. The moon slid again behind a drifting cloud, just as the horseman emerged from the trees on the other side of the small glade. The man, hugging his covert, cursed silently. He could make out only a vague moving mass; could hear only the clink stirrups and the creak of leather. Then the moon came out again, and with a deep gasp of relief, the hider sprang from among the bushes.

The horse reared and snorted, the rider yelped a startled oath, and a short spear gleamed in his lifted hand. The apparition which had so suddenly sprung to his horse’s head was not one calculated to reassure a lonely wayfarer. It was a tall, rangily powerful man, naked but for a loin cloth, his steely muscles rippling in the moonlight.

“Back, or I run you through!” snarled the horseman, in Turki. “Who are you, in Satan’s name?”

“Roger de Cogan,” answered the other in Norman-French. “Speak softly. We are scarce a mile from a Moslem rendezvous, and they may have scouts out. I marvel that you have not been taken. Up the shore, in a small bay screened with tall trees, there are three galleys hidden, and I saw the glitter of arms ashore. This night I escaped from the galley of the famed pirate, the Arab Yusef idbn Zalim, where I have toiled for months at the oars. He made the rendezvous, for what reason I know not, but fearing treachery of some sort from the Turks, anchored outside the bay. And now he lies at the bottom of the gulf, for I broke my chain, came quietly upon him as he drowsed in the bows, strangled him, and swam ashore.”

The horseman grunted, sitting his horse like a statue, etched in the moonlight. He was tall, clad in grey chain-mail which did not hide the hard lines of his rangy limbs, an iron cap pushed back carelessly on his steel-hooded head. Even in the uncertain light, the fugitive was impressed by the man’s hawk-like, predatory features.

“I think you lie,” he said, speaking Norman-French with a peculiar accent. “You a galley slave, with your hair new cropped and your face freshly shaven? And what Moslem galleys would dare hide on the European shore, so close to the city?”

“Why, by God,” answered the other in evident surprize, “you can not deny that I am a Christian. As to my hair and beard, I think it a poor thing that a cavalier should allow himself to become sloven, even in captivity. One of the captives on board the galley was a Greek barber, and only this morning I prevailed upon him to shear and shave me. As for the other, all men know that the Moslems steal up and down the Bosphorus and the Sea of Marmora almost at will. But we risk our lives standing here babbling. Give me a stirrup and let us be gone.”

“I think not,” muttered the horseman. “You have seen too much.”

And with a powerful heave of his whole frame, he drove the spear straight toward the other’s broad breast. So unexpected was the action, that it was only the instinctive movement of the victim which saved him. Caught flat-footed, his steel-trap coordination yet electrified him a flashing fraction of an instant quicker than the driving steel, which cut the skin on his shoulder as it hissed past him. But it was not blind instinct which caused him to grasp the spear-shaft and jerk back savagely. Rage at the unprovoked woke the killing lust in his brain. The avoiding of the blow and the jerk at the spear-shaft were the work of an instant. Over-reached and off balance from the missed stroke, the horseman tumbled headlong from the saddle, full on his antagonist’s breast, and they crashed to the ground together, the horseman’s carelessly worn helmet falling from his head. The horse snorted and bolted to the edge of the trees.

The stranger had released the spear as he fell, and now, close locked, the fighters rolled across the open space and crashed among the bushes. The mailed hand clutched at the sheathed dagger, but de Cogan was quicker. With a volcanic heave, he reared himself above his antagonist, clutching a heavy stone on which his fingers had blindly closed. The dagger was out, gleaming in the moonlight, but before it could drive home, the stone crashed with stunning force on the mail-clad head. The flexible coif was not enough protection against such a blow. The pliant links did not part, but they gave, and beneath them the striker felt the skull crunch under the blow. And with fully roused ferocity, the ex-slave struck again and again, until his foeman lay motionless beneath him, blood seeping sluggishly from beneath the iron hood.

Then, panting, he rose, flinging aside the crude weapon, and glared down at the vanquished. Still shaken with fury and surprize, he shook his head bewilderedly. Then a sudden thought came to him, and he wondered that it had not occurred to him before. The horseman had come from the direction of the Moslem camp. Surely it had been impossible for him to have ridden past it unchallenged. He must have been in the camp itself. Then that meant that the fellow was somehow in league with the paynim, and again Roger shook his head. He had learned much of the ways of the East since he had ridden down the Danube in the vanguard of Peter the Hermit. Byzantine and Moslem were not always at each other’s throats. Sometimes they dealt together secretly, to the confounding of the westerners. But Roger had never heard of a Crusader turning renegade – and this man, in the armor of a Cross Wearer, was no Greek.

Yielding to urgent necessity, Roger began to strip the dead. The dead man was clean shaven, with square-cut yellow hair. As far as appearances went, he might have been a Norman, but de Cogan remembered his alien accent. The ex-galley slave hurriedly donned the harness, settled the sword belt more firmly about his lean loins, and looked about for the iron cap which he placed on his tawny locks. All fitted him as if made for him. Inch for inch, the unknown attacker and he had been a perfect match. He stroked the hilt of the long broad sword, and felt like a man again, for the first time in months. The clink of the scabbard against his mail-sheathed thigh reminded him that he was again Sir Roger de Cogan, knight of the Cross, and one of England’s surest swords.

No sound save the distant twittering of night birds disturbed the magic silence as he caught the charger which was calmly gazing at the edge of the woods. As he swung into the saddle, the long months of degradation and grinding toil fell away from him like a cast-off mantle, leaving only a grim determination to pay the debt he owed the worshippers of Muhammad. He smiled bleakly as he remembered the dying gurgles of Yusef ibn Zalim, but his face darkened as another visage rose before him, mocking in the moonlight – a lean hawk-face, crowned by a peaked helmet with a heron’s feather. Prince Othman, son of Kilidg Arslan, the Red Lion of the Seljuks. The phantom mocked, but there would be another day, and scant in all other things, Norman patience, when laid toward vengeance, was deep and abiding as the North Sea which bred it.

Roger left the spear where it lay, but he unslung the kite-shaped shield which hung at the saddle-bow, and wary as a wolf, plunged into the shadows of the trees, in the direction in which he had been going before the adventure. There was no insignia on the shield, but on the breast of the hauberk a strange emblem was worked in gold – something that looked like a falcon, and was unmistakably Grecian in its artistry.

The woods through which he rode were now as deserted as if he were the last man on earth. He followed the shore line as near as he dared, guiding his course by the distant lap of the waves, and the terrain was rolling and uneven. After some three hours, the lights of Constantinople blazed through the trees, as he mounted rises, then vanished as he dipped into hollows. It was, he calculated, somewhat past midnight when he rode into the outskirts of the city, which, separate from the greater metropolis and yet a part of it, sprawled along the northern bank of the Golden Horn. This was the quarters of the Venetian traders and other foreign merchants – straggling streets of carved wooden buildings and more substantial houses of stone. But before he reached the heart of the city, a wall halted him, and the watch at the gate hailed him. A torch in a mailed hand was reached down, to be brandished almost in his face, but before he could name himself, he saw a figure in black velvet lean from the wall and scrutinize him closely. There followed a few low words in Greek, and the gates swung open, to clang behind him as he reined his steed through. He prepared to ride away down the street, when the velveted figure darted out and caught his rein.

“Light! light!” exclaimed this person impatiently. “What is in your mind? Have you forgotten our master’s instructions? Here, Manuel, take this steed to the pier. Come with me, my lord Thorvald. Wait! Some one may recognize you! I had not known you, in those western trappings, and without your beard, but for the golden falcon on your hauberk. But some one might – take this silken scarf and mask your features with it.”

Sir Roger took it and wrapped in loosely about his coif, so that only his steely eyes were visible. It was apparent that he had been mistaken for the man he had slain. It was almost certain that he was going into danger, but it was as certain that if he declared his identity, he would just as quickly find himself in danger. The name of Thorvald stirred some faint recollection at the back of the Norman’s mind, and he instinctively touched the hilt of the sword at his girdle.

The guide led the way through narrow, deserted streets, until Roger knew that they were not far from piers that gave on to the strait, and halted at the door of a squat stone tower, evidently a relic of an earlier, ruder age. Some one looked out through a slit in the door.

“Open, fool!” hissed the man in velvet. “It is Angelus and the lord Thorvald the Smiter.”

Hinges creaked as the door swung inward. Sir Roger followed, in a maze of fantastic speculations. Thorvald the Smiter – so that was the man he had battered to death with a stone in the glade. He had heard of the Norseman who was the grimmest swordsman in the Varangian Guards, that band of mercenaries, Northern slayers maintained by the Greeks. He had seen them about the palace of the Emperor – tall bearded men, in crested helmets and scarlet-edged cloaks and gilded mail. But what was a Varangian captain doing riding from a Turkish rendezvous in the night, clad in the mail of a Crusader?

Roger began to feel that he had stepped into a pit full of hidden snakes in the dark, but he drew the scarf closer about his features, and followed his guide through a short dark corridor into a small, dim-lit chamber. Some one was sitting in a great ornate chair, and to this figure the guide bowed almost to the floor, and withdrew, closing the door behind him. The Norman stood straining his eyes, and as they became accustomed to the dim candle-light, the form in the chair slowly took form. It was a short, stocky man who sat there, wrapped in a plain dark satin cloak which hid all other details of his costume. A featherless slouch hat and a mask lay on a table close at hand, arguing that the man had come in secrecy, fearing recognition. The knight’s eyes were drawn to the other’s face; the blue-black beard was carefully curled, the dark locks bound back from the broad forehead with a cloth-of-gold band; beneath it wide brown eyes gleamed with an innate vitality. Sir Roger started violently. In God’s name, into what dark undercurrent of plot and intrigue had he fallen? The man in the chair was Alexis Comnene, emperor of the Byzantine empire.

“You have come quickly enough, Thorvald,” said the emperor – and Sir Roger did not reply, being too busy wondering what mysterious matter had brought the emperor of the East from his marble-pillared palace in the dead of night to an obscure tower in the outer city.

“You ride with a loose rein. The messenger I sent did not tell you why I wished your presence?”

Sir Roger shook his head, at a venture. Alexis nodded.

“I told him to only bid you hasten here. But tell me – in your cruisings among the Black Sea corsairs, have they ever suspected your true identity?”

Again Sir Roger shook his head.

Alexis smiled.

“Sparing of speech as ever, old wolf! It is well. But just now I have work for you even more important than keeping an eye on the Moslem pirates. So I sent for you –

“Thorvald, since you went spying among the Turks, the hosts of the Franks have come and gone. They did not come as came Peter the Hermit and Gautier-sans-Avoir – rabbles of paupers and knaves. They came with war-horses, and wagon trains, cavaliers, and women, archers, pikemen and men-at-arms – all afire with zeal for recovering the Holy Sepulcher.

“First came Hugh of Vermandois, brother of the French king, in a ship with a few attendants. I feasted him royally, made him rich gifts, and persuaded him to take oath of allegiance to me. Then came others – St. Gilles of Provence, Godfrey of Bouillon and his brothers, and that devil Bohemund. All took oath of fealty except the stubborn Count of Provence – but I fear him not. He is zealous, and all for Jerusalem. Bohemund is another matter; he would cut the throat of Saint Paul, to gratify his ambition.

“They took Nicea for me, but I tricked them out of it, sending Manuel Butumites to make a secret treaty with the Turks, and now the city is garrisoned with my soldiers. Now the host marches southward, toward Palestine, and in the hills of Asia Minor, Kilidg Arslan will doubtless cut all their throats. Yet it may be that they will prevail against him. At least, they will deal him such great blows that he will be no more a menace for Byzantium for years to come. Nay, I fear him less than I fear that devil Bohemund, whom naught but luck helped me to defeat some twelve years ago when he came up out of Italy with Robert Guiscard.

“Thorvald, I sent for you because there is no man east of the Danube able to stand against you in sword-play. I have laid my plans well, yet Bohemund has slipped through my fingers before. With the corsairs you have been my eyes and my brain; now you must be my sword. Your task is to see that Bohemund does not leave the field alive, when Kilidg Arslan comes up against the Franks. Hew not to the right nor to the left, but aim your strokes at him! This is my command – come what will, be the fortune of war what it may, who ever conquers or loses, lives or dies – KILL BOHEMUND!”

The emperor’s voice rang vibrantly in the chamber, his dark eyes flashed magnetically. Roger felt the force of the man’s dynamic personality like a physical impact.

“The Crusaders have already been a few days on the road,” said Alexis, “but they travel slowly, for their cavalry must keep pace with their wagons. It will be easy for you to pass beyond them and reach the Sultan before he joins battle, with the arrangements I have made. Your steed is already on a boat – a fresh steed, that is. The boat lies at the foot of the Green Pier – but Angelus will guide you thither. On the Asiatic side Ortuk Khan, he whom men call the Rider of the Wind, will meet you and lead you to the Sultan. Theodore Butumites is with Godfrey – ” he broke off suddenly, staring at Roger’s coif. “By Saint Paul,” said he, “there is fresh blood on your mail, Thorvald. Are you wounded?”

His mind full of whirling conjectures, Roger absently answered, “No.”

Instantly he was realized his mistake. Alexis started, and his keen eyes flared with suspicion. Every faculty of the man was as sharp as a whetted sword.

“That’s not Thorvald’s voice!” he snarled, and with a motion quick as a striking hawk, he ripped the scarf from the knight’s head. Both men leaped to their feet, the emperor recoiling with a scream.

“Spy! This is not Thorvald! Ho, the guard!”

Sir Roger’s sword flashed in the candle-light. Alexis leaped back, cat-like, and the blade sheared a lock of hair from his head as it hummed past. Instantly it seemed, the room swarmed with armed men, pouring in from each door. But the sight of the emperor fleeing desperately from the murderous attack of one they supposed to be a loyal servitor, momentarily froze their wits. Roger alone knew exactly what he had to do. No time for another stroke at the emperor who had sprung behind the great chair, and was shouting for his soldiers to cut down the impostor. The Norman wheeled toward the nearest door, where three men barred his way. The first went down, casque and skull cloven by the knight’s shearing stroke, and as the other two sprang in hacking, Sir Roger ducked and drove in headlong behind his shield. They reeled apart before the impact, and the Norman’s bull-like drive carried him through the door and into the corridor. Recovering his balance in full flight, he raced down the short hallway. The outer door had been left unguarded. A quick fumbling at the chains and bolts and he was through, slammed the door in the faces of his yelling pursuers, and fled down the narrow street, cursing the clang of his mail-shod feet on the flags. He could not hope to evade his attackers, but ahead of him were the broad rows of green marble steps leading down to the waters edge, known as the Green Pier. He knew it of old. At the foot of the steps lay a broad boat, the steersman holding the craft to the lower step by a boat-hook thrust into a ring set in the marble. A rangy Arab horse was held quiet by grooms, and the brawny oarsmen gaped at his haste, as the knight ran down the steps and sprang into the boat.

“Give way!” he growled. The boatmen hesitated. Up the street came the clamor of pursuit. Steel clanked and torches tossed.

“Push off!” the boatmen saw the glimmer of naked steel in the knight’s mailed hand. They were unarmed laborers, not fighters. The steersman disengaged the boathook, and thrusting it against the steps, shoved powerfully. The heavy craft swung out into the current, and the rowers bent to their labor. They moved out into the shadowy star-mirroring reaches, and looking back, Sir Roger saw mailed figures racing up and down the piers, seeking a boat. But luck was with him; the wharfs had vanished in the distance before he heard, faintly the clack of oar-locks, and knew that the pursuit had taken to water.

The rowers, eyeing his dripping sword, bent to their oars as strongly as if he had been Alexis himself. The noise of the pursuing boats drew steadily nearer; they dogged his trail throughout that three-mile row, and the last few hundred yards he saw starlight glinting on helmets. But he was still a few score paces ahead when the low prow nudged the Asian shore. Springing to the saddle, he spurred the steed over the side, and plunged into the darkness.

There he had the advantage. His pursuers were not mounted, although it was quite possible that there might be steeds for them in the vicinity. He headed eastward at a long swinging gallop. In the darkness he was aware only of a vague shadowy landscape of low hills and flat stretches, with occasional blurs he took to be herders’ huts. Clouds had again obscured the stars, and the moon had long set. He drew rein, moving along almost at a walk, in the thick darkness, when suddenly he realized that there was a movement about him. He heard the restive stamp of hoofs, and the jingle of trappings. A voice swore in a tongue alien yet hatefully familiar. Turks! He had ridden blindly into them in the darkness. They were all about him, hemming him in. Stealthily he reached for his sword, then a sibilant voice inquired, “Is it you, lord Thorvald?”

“Who else?” growled the knight, striving to assume the harsh accents of the Norseman.

“Strike a light,” muttered another voice. “Best be certain.”

There was the clink of flint on steel, and a tiny flame sprang up, illuminating a ring of bearded hawk-like faces – glinting on polished shoulder-plates, burnished helmets and ring-mail. The tall warrior who held the light leaned forward and eyed Sir Roger intently.

“There is the gold falcon, see?” said the Moslem. “Besides, look at the sword. The face of the Smiter is not so familiar to me that I would know it without the beard, but by Allah, I would recognize that blade anywhere!”

The light went out. Behind them, toward the shore, came a distant murmur as of many men. Torches tossed erratically. Roger felt the warriors about him stiffen suspiciously, and he heard the stir of scimitars in their sheaths.

“Who moves yonder?” asked the tall Moslem.

“Men the emperor sent to see that I got safely across,” answered Sir Roger. “He feared lest the Franks had left spies behind them.” Why do we linger here? It is not long until dawn.”

“True,” muttered the Turk. “And we were better safe in the hills before daylight. You came ahead of time. We were riding to the shore to meet you, when you rode in among us. We were lucky that we did not miss each other in this accursed dark. Ride in the midst of us, my lord.”

They moved off in a canter that grew into an easy swinging gallop that ate up the miles. As dawn rose, the band, like a flying band of desert ghosts, crossed the shoulder of a blue mountain and vanished in the hills beyond.

Daylight showed the night his companions – a score of hawk-like riders in the steel and gold and leather of the Seljuks. They rode like the wind, like men who do not have to spare their mounts, and he guessed that relays awaited them in the hills – for already they were beyond the eastern-most bounds of Alexis’ domain. They had not suspected him, and in that grim masquerade he had made no plans. He had but followed the trend of the tide, caught in the eddy, moving without volition of his own. He knew what he would do if the opportunity rose, but for the moment he was helpless, with only half-facts at his command.

Indeed, the whole course of his life had lain along those lines, he thought morosely, to the tune of the drumming hoofs. Born in castle built up out of the ruins of a Saxon keep, almost exactly a year after the Battle of Hastings, Sir Roger’s impulses and instincts had led him into such a tangle of affairs that he himself despaired of unravelling it. So, he departed from the land of his birth, not much in advance of soldiers sent by the exasperated king. Resentment toward his leige led him into the service of Duke Robert of Normandy, who was continually at logger-heads with his fox-like brother, but Roger’s impatient spirit could not endure the procrastinating and wine-guzzling habits of the Duke, however generous and good-natured, and presently he found himself in the kingdom Norman swords had carved in southern Italy. He had ridden beside Tancred and shared the yellow fighting-cock’s adventures, but Bohemund’s everlasting ambition had palled on the English knight. The scene shifted to the Rhineland, where he was a participant in the gory climax of Duke Godfrey’s feud with Rudolph of Swabia. Then came the dawn of the Crusades, Urban’s trumpet-like invocation, and men selling their lands to buy horses to carry them eastward to salvation and the slaughter of the heathen.

The barons were gathering, but to the more penniless, they moved too slowly. Besides, there was an unexpressed doubt that there would be enough plunder to go around, once the great lords took the field. A horde of ploughmen, beggars and vagabonds rallied around Peter the Hermit, kissing the ground on which he walked, and getting their brains kicked out by his pessimistic jackass when they tried to pluck out the animal’s grey hairs for holy relics. Peter emulated Urban and great was his magnetic power. To the gaunt fanatic likewise came a sprinkling of poverty-ridden knights and nobles, and the motley horde moved eastward down the Danube, singing hosannas and stealing pigs.

Among these poverty-ridden knights were Roger de Cogan and his brother-at-arms, Gautier sans Avoir – the Penniless. They tried to herd the horde, but they might as well have tried to herd the vultures of the Carpathians. The ravenous pilgrims, some eighty thousand strong, passed like a famine through the land of the Hungarians, fought with Alexis’ outpost, fell on their knees to greet the spires of Constantinople, and settled themselves down, apparently, to devour all the food in the empire.

When they began to hack sheets of lead from the cathedral roofs to sell in the market place, Alexis in despair had them ferried across the Bosphorus, and there herds of them straggled away into the hills and managed to get themselves butchered by a raiding band of Turks. Gautier and his comrades, with more valor than discretion, sallied forth to rescue the miserable wretches, and ran into a veritable army of chanting heron-feathered riders. There died Gautier, on a heap of Turkish corpses, with his mad and gallant gentlemen, and Sir Roger, recovering his senses after a battle-axe, shattering on his casque, had dashed him into darkness, found himself bound with chains along with the remnant of his band, and being marched to Nicea, where he was sold to a tall lean vulture in steel and gold – the Arab Yusef ibn Zalim. His lean ship cruised the shores of the Black Sea, and up and down the Bosphorus from the Black Sea to the Mediterranean, and Roger saw sights both in the belly of the galley, and on the blood-stained deck, which haunted his dreams for the rest of his life. Yet these red visions were not able to dim one scene of horror and madness – his comrade Gautier, dying among the dead, and a lean scornful horseman in gilded mail and heron-feathered helmet, rearing his horse to bring down the hoofs crashing in the blood-stained dying face.

“Thus Othman, son of Kilidg Arslan, deals with infidels!” The scornful words rang in Roger de Cogan’s ears above the wash of waves, the splintering of the oars, and the red clamor of battle.

Now the English knight found himself galloping in company with Turkish reavers, in a grim masquerade, bound for a destination of which he knew nothing, save that it would doubtless bring him face to face with Prince Othman and his grim sire. He kept looking back for signs of pursuit; but if Alexis’ soldiers had followed, they had missed the trail.

At noon the riders came upon a squat tower in the hills, where food and drink, and fresh horses awaited them. They were in the outlying domain of Kilidg Arslan, the Red Lion of Islam, but as yet they had seen no villages, and only ruins, relics of ancient Roman rule. They spent scant time at their meal, but swung to the saddle and spurred up their mounts again.

And all through the hot dry summer afternoon they swung through the rugged hills at a gallop, pushing their horses unmercifully. Roger had kept his eyes open for out-riders of the Crusaders, or signs of their march, but he realized that they must be riding to the north of the Cross Wearers line of march. He asked no questions, nor did Ortuk Khan vouch-safe any information; he rode along humming a song about a warrior whose skill at racing had gained for him the name of the Rider of the Wind. Roger sensed that this matter was the Seljuk’s one weakness and vanity.

At moonrise they came again upon a relay of fresh horses in the hills, and again when the moon had set with a dusty courier, with whom Ortuk Khan talked long. Then he seated himself cross-legged on the ground, and signed for the men to prepare the meal.

“We are within striking distance of our objective,” said he to Roger. “We have covered in hours what took the Cross Wearers days to traverse. We are now but three hours riding from the camp of the infidels. At dawn we will go forward, and join in the battle.”

Roger had been puzzling in his mind as to how Alexis meant to wipe out Bohemund without destroying the rest of the Crusaders, and he ventured a question. “Repeat to me the trap the Red Lion has set for the Cross Wearers.”

“Thus it is,” answered Ortuk Khan readily. “Maimoun – Bohemund – and his people march ahead of the main body of the infidels. This night they lie in camp where the hills slope down into the plain of Doryleum, awaiting the coming up of Senjhil – St. Gilles – and the rest.

“But Alexis has given these others a guide to lead them astray. You see yonder peak which stands up in the moonlight above the other hills? Were you to ride due south on a straight line from that peak for five hours, you would come upon their camp.

“At dawn the Red Lion will ride in from the east, and crushed Maimoun and his iron men between his hands. Then he will move on Senjhil and the others and sweep them from the earth.”

So Alexis was hand-and-glove with the Seljuk, as far as destroying Bohemund went; it had been obvious from the beginning. The traitorous guide mentioned by Ortuk Khan must be Theodore Butumites. Alexis had said the Greek was with St. Gilles. Roger looked long at the peak pointed out to him by the Turk, and fixed the land marks of the country firmly in his mind. Doryleum was three hours ride to the east; the camp of the others five hours ride to the south. On the eastern hills was crawling the first faint whitening of dawn. The Turks were bestirring themselves, saddling their horses and buckling their armor.

“Ortuk Khan,” said Sir Roger casually, rising and laying his hand on the mane of the lean Turkoman steed which had been given him, “dawn is lifting and we must quickly be on our way to join the Red Lion. But to breathe our steeds, I will race you to yonder knoll.”

The Turk smiled. “It is still three hours hard riding to Doryleum, my lord, and our steeds will have much work to do after we reach the field.”

“It is only a few hundred paces to the knoll,” answered Sir Roger. “I have heard much of your skill at racing, and wished to have the honor of striving against you. Of course, there are many stones and boulders, and the footing is perilous. If you fear the attempt – ”

Ortuk Khan’s face darkened.

“That was ill said, oh man men call the Smiter. The folly of one makes fools of wise men. Yet mount, and I will do this childish thing.”

They swung to their saddles, reined back their mounts even with each other, then at a word were off like bolts from a crossbow. The steel-clad warriors watched the race with interest.

“The footing is not so unstable as the Frank said,” quoth one. “Look, their flight is as that of falcons. Ortuk Khan draws ahead.”

“But the Smiter is close on his heels!” exclaimed another. “Look, they near the knoll – what is this? The Franks has drawn his sword! It flashes in the dawn-light – Allah!”

A yell of astounded fury rose from the lean warriors. Riding hard, the Norman had disappeared around the knoll; behind him a riderless horse raced away from the still form which lay in a crimson pool among the rocks. The Rider of the Wind had ridden his last race.

Shaking the red drops from his blade, Sir Roger gave the Turkoman horse the rein. He did not look back, though he strained his ears for the drum of pursuing hoofs. Guiding his course by the peak, he passed through the hills like a flying ghost. A short time after sunrise he crossed a broad track, with marks of broad wagon-wheels and the print of myriad feet and hoofs. The road of Bohemund. Among these prints were fresher hoof-prints, unshod, smaller. The prints of Turkish steeds. So the scouts of the Seljuks dogged the Norman column closely.

It was past the middle of the morning when Roger rode into the vast wide-flung camp of the Crusaders. His none too tender heart warmed at the familiar sights – knights with falcons on their wrists and giant hounds trailing them; yellow-haired women laughing under canopied pavilions; young esquires burnishing the armor of their lords. It was like a bit of Europe transferred to the bleak hills of Asia Minor. Two hundred thousand people camped here, their fires and tents spreading out over the valley. Some of the pavilions had been taken down, some of the oxen harnessed to the wagons, but there was an air of waiting. Men-at-arms leaned on their pikes, pages wandered through the low bushes, whistling to their hounds. It was as if all the west had streamed eastward. Roger saw flaxen-haired Rhinelanders, black-bearded Spaniards and Provencals – French, Germans, Austrians. The clatter of a score of different tongues reached him.

The English knight reined through the throngs which stared at his dusty mail and sweaty horse, and halted before the pavilions whose richer colors betokened the leaders of the expedition. He saw them coming forth from their tents in full armor – Godfrey of Bouillon, and his brothers, Eustace and Baldwin of Boulogne – a stocky grey-bearded figure which must be Raymond of St. Gilles, Count of Toulouse. With them was a figure in ornate armor, the burnished plates contrasting with the grey mesh-mail coats of the westerners – Roger knew the man must be Theodore Butumites, brother of the new-made duke of Nicea, and officer of the Greek cataphracts.

The Turkoman charger snorted and tossed its head up and down, froth flying from the bit, as Roger slid to earth. Norman-like, the knight wasted no words.

“My lords,” he said bluntly, without preliminary salutation, “I have come to tell you that a battle is forward, and if you would take part, you had best hasten.”

“A battle?” It was Eustace of Boulogne, keen as a hunting hound on the scent. “Who fights?”

“Bohemund confronts the Red Lion, even as we stand here.”

The barons looked at each other uncertainly and Butumites laughed.

“The man is mad. How could Kilidg Arslan fall upon Bohemund without passing us? And we have seen no Turks.”

“Where is Bohemund?” asked Raymond.

“In the plain of Doryleum, some six hours hard riding to the north.”

“What!” It was an exclamation of unbelief. “How could that be? The lord Theodore has led us in a direct route, through valleys Bohemund missed. The Normans are somewhere behind us, and Theodore has sent his Byzantine scouts to find them and bring them hither, since it is evident that they have become lost in the hills. We are awaiting them before we take up the march.”

“It is you who are lost,” snapped Sir Roger. “Theodore Butumites is a spy and a traitor, sent by Alexis to lead you astray, while Kilidg Arslan crushes Bohemund – ”

“Dog, your life for that!” shouted the fiery Greek, striding forward, his hand on his sword. Roger fronted him grimly, gripping his own hilt, but the barons intervened.

“These are serious accusations you bring, friend,” said Godfrey. “What proofs have you of these words?”

“Why, in God’s name,” exclaimed Roger, “have you not seen that the Greek has swung further and further south? The Normans took the straighter course – it is you who have wandered from the route. Bohemund marched southeast by south – you have traveled due south. If you follow this course long enough, you may fetch the Mediterranean, but you will scarce come to the Holy Land!”

“Who is this rogue?” exclaimed Butumites angrily.

“Duke Godfrey knows me,” retorted the Norman. “I am Roger de Cogan.”

“By the saints!” exclaimed Godfrey, a smile lighting his worn face. “I had thought to recognize you, Godfrey! But you have changed – you have changed. My lords,” he turned to the others, “this gentleman is known to me aforetime – nay, he rode with me into the Lateran, when I – ”

He checked himself with the strange aversion he always felt toward speaking of what he considered his sacrilege in killing Duke Rudolph in the holy confines.

“But we know him not,” answered St. Gilles, with the caution that always ate at him like a worm in a beam. “And he comes with a strange tale – he would lead us on a wild chase, with naught but his own word – ”

“God’s thunder!” cried Roger, his short Norman patience exhausted. “Shall we gabble here while the Turks cut Bohemund’s throat? It is my word against the Greek’s, and I demand trial – the gauge of combat to decide between us!”

“Well spoken!” exclaimed Adhemar, the pope’s legate, a tall man who wore the chain mail of a knight, and was a warrior at heart. Such scenes warmed his heart, which was that of a warrior. “As mouth-piece of our Holy Father, I declare the righteousness of such course.”

“Well, and let us be at it!” exclaimed Roger, burning with impatience. “Choose your weapons, Greek!”

Butumites glanced over his dusty mail, and the light-limbed, sweat-covered steed, and smiled secretly.

“Dare you run a course with sharpened spears?”

This was a matter at which the Franks were more experienced than the Greeks, but Butmites was of larger boned frame than most of his race, well able to compete with the westerners in physical strength, and he had had experience, jousting with the western knights while they lay at Alexis’ court. He glanced at his giant black war-horse, accoutered with heavy trappings of silk, steel and lacquered leather, and smiled again. But Godfrey interposed.

“Nay, masters, this is but a sorry thing, seeing that Sir Roger has come hither on a weary steed, and that more fit for racing than fighting. Nay, Roger, you shall take my steed and lance, and my casque, too.”

Butumites shrugged his shoulders. In an instant his crushing advantage had been swept away, but he was still confident. At any rate, he preferred lances to sword-strokes, having no desire to encounter the stroke of the great sword that hung at Roger’s hip. He had fought Normans before.

Roger took the long heavy spear, and mounted the steed, held by Godfrey’s esquires, but refused the heavy helmet – a massive pot-like affair, without a movable vizor, but with a slit for the eyes. The joust had not then attained its later conventions and formalities; at that early date a lance-running was either a duel with sharpened weapons, or simply a form of training for more serious war-fare. A rude course had been formed by the crowd, pressing in on both sides, leaving a broad lane open. In this clear space the foes trotted apart for a short distance, wheeled couched their lances, and awaited the signal.

The trumpet blared and the great horses thundered toward each other. The shining black armor and plumed casque of the Byzantine contrasted strongly with the dusty grey armor and plain iron bassinet of the Norman. Roger knew that Butumites would aim his lance directly at his unprotected face, and he bent low, glaring at his foe above the upper rim of his heavy shield. The hosts gave tongue as the knights shocked together with a rending crash. Both lances shivered to the hand-grips, and the horses were hurled back on their haunches. But Roger kept his seat, though half-stunned by the terrible impact, while Butumites was dashed from his saddle as though by a thunder-bolt. He lay where he had fallen, his burnished steel-clad limbs crumpled in the dust, blood oozing from his cracked helmet.

Roger reined in his rearing steed and slid to earth dazedly, his head still ringing. The breaking lance of the Byzantine, glancing from the rim of his shield, had torn his bassinet from his head, and all but ripped loose the tendons of his neck. He advanced rather stiffly to the group which had formed about the prostrate Greek. The caque with its nodding plumes had been lifted off, and Butumites looked up at the faces above him with glazed eyes. It was evident that the man was dying. His breast-plate was shattered, and his whole breast-bone caved inward. Adhemar leaned above him, rosary in hand, muttering rapidly.

“My son, have you any confession?”

The dying lips worked, but only a dry rattle came from them. With a terrible effort the Greek muttered, “Doryleum – Kilidg Arslan – Bohemund – ” blood gushed from his lips, and he stiffened, a still figure of burnished metal, steel-sheathed limbs falling awry.

Godfrey went into instant action.

“To horse!” he shouted. “A steed for Sir Roger! Bohemund needs aid and by the favor of God, he shall not call in vain!”

The throng yelped and the scene became a medly of confusion, knights mounting, men-at-arms buckling on their armor.

“Wait!” exclaimed St. Gilles. “We can not go racing over these hills, wagons and footmen – some one must guard the supplies – ”

“Do you this thing, my lord Raymond,” said Godfrey, a-fire with impatience. “Get the wagons under way, and follow with them and the footmen. My horsemen and I will push forward. Roger, lead the way!”

Untitled Synopsis (The Slave-Princess)

Cormac FitzGeoffrey rides into a city that the Turkomans are looting. He arrives to late to share in the loot, but he captures an Arab slave girl, Zuleika, whose owner has just been murdered by a Turkoman. He kills the Turkoman and carries her off with him, riding to the castle of Sieur Amory. There he divulges his plan. He has noticed a striking resemblance between Zuleika and the daughter of Abdullah bin Kheram, the princess Zalda, who had been carried off three years before by Kurdish raiders, on the verge of her wedding to Khelru Shah, chief of the Seljuk Turks, who rules the hill-town of Kizil-hissar, the Red Castle. Amory keeps the girl with him, and Cormac rides to Kizil-hissar. He tells Khelru Shah that he has found the vanished princess, and that he will delivers her up to him for ten thousand pieces of gold. Khelru Shah threatens to keep him as hostage, but Cormac laughs at him, telling him that if he, Cormac, has not returned in a certain time, the princess’s throat will be cut. Khelru Shah refuses to believe that the princess still lives, and decides to ride to Amory’s castle with Cormac and see for himself. They set out with three hundred riders, and even before they set forth, one Ali, an Arab trader, who has spied upon their council, races southward on a swift camel. Meanwhile Amory has become somewhat interested in his fair captive, to the extent of attempting to ravish her, but refraining for some reason he himself cannot understand. Zuleika has fallen in love with her captor, but Amory, wild, and hardened by years of intrigue and battle, cannot believe himself in love with her. Cormac and Khelru Shah ride up to the castle wall and Amory displays Zuleika on the tower. Khelru Shah is puzzled; he finally decides that it is the princess Zalda, and demands a night to think the matter over. He retires with all his force a mile away and goes into camp, while Cormac enters the castle. Just at dark, a crippled beggar howls for admission at the castle gate and is allowed to enter and sleep in the castle hall. The Arab girl is locked into her chamber with a soldier on guard and Cormac and Amory drink and converse in another chamber. The walls are closely guarded in event of a surprize attack. When all the castle is silent, the crippled beggar rises stealthily, disclosing the countenance of an Egyptian right-hand man of Khelru Shah’s. He steals to the girl’s chamber, strangles her guard, enters, binds and gags her, and steals out of the castle. He conceals her in the stable, then slays the soldier guarding the postern gate and opens it, then sets fire to the castle. Khelru Shah’s men, who have stolen up on foot in the darkness, rush through the postern gate. Meanwhile, Cormac and Amory have quarrelled. Amory declares he will not let the girl go, and while the two are fighting hand to hand, a soldier rushes in shouting that the courtyard swarms with Turks. The handful of men in the castle cut their way out of the blazing hold, but are surrounded in the court-yard and about to be cut to pieces, when Abdullah bin Kheram rides up with a thousand men. The trader Ali has told him his daughter is captive there. Fighting ceases as all learn in wonder that Zuleika is indeed the princess Zalda. Khelru Shah is slain by Cormac who hacks his way through the Arabs and escapes, and Zalda makes known her love to Amory. The Sheikh gives his consent that they should marry and a powerful alliance is formed between the Arabs and Amory, for life.

Untitled Fragment (The Slave-Princess)

Outside the clamor mounted deafeningly. The rasp of steel on steel mingled with yells of blood-lust and yells of wild triumph. The young slave girl hesitated and looked about the chamber in which she stood. There was resigned helplessness in her gaze. The city had fallen; the blood-drunk Turkomans were riding through the streets, burning, looting, slaughtering. Any moment might see the victorious savages running red handed through the house of her owner.

From another part of the house a fat merchant came running. His eyes were distended with terror, his breath came in gasps. He bore gems and worthless gew-gaws in his hands – belongings snatched blindly and at random.

“Zuleika!” His voice was the screech of a trapped weasel, “Open the door quickly, then bar it from this side – I will escape through the rear. Allah il Allah! The Turkish fiends are slaying all in the streets – the gutters run red – ”

“What of me, master?” the girl asked humbly.

“What of you, hussy?” screamed the man, striking her heavily, “Open the door, open the door, I tell you – ahhhhhh!”

His voice snapped brittle as glass. Through an outer door came a wild and fearsome figure – a shaggy, ragged Turkoman whose eyes were the eyes of a mad dog. Zuleika in frozen terror saw the wide glaring eyes, the lanky hair, the short boar-spear gripped in a hand that dripped crimson.

The merchant’s voice rose in a frenzied squeaking. He made a desperate dash across the chamber but the tribesman leaped like a cat on a mouse and one lean hand gripped the merchant’s garments. Zuleika watched in dumb horror. She had reason to hate the man – reasons of outrage, punishment and indignity, but from the depths of her heart she pitied the howling wretch as he writhed and shrank from his fate. The boar-spear ripped upward; the screams broke in a fearful gurgle. The Turkoman stepped over the ghastly red thing on the floor and stalked toward the terrified girl. She shrank back, unspeaking. Long she had learned the cruelty of men and the uselessness of appeal. She did not beg for her life. The Turkoman gripped her by the breast of the single scanty garment she wore and she felt his wild beast eyes burn into her’s. He was too far gone in the slaughter-lust for her to rouse another desire in his wild soul. In that red moment she was only a living thing, pulsing and quivering with life, for him to still forever in blood and agony.

She sought to close her eyes but she could not. In a clear white light of semi-detachment she welcomed death, to end a road that had been hard and cruel. But her flesh shrank from the doom her spirit accepted and only her attacker’s grasp held her erect. Grinning like a wolf he brought the keen point of the spear against her breast and a thin trickle of blood started from the tender skin. The tribesman sucked in his breath in fierce ecstacy; he would drive the blade home slowly, gradually, twisting it excruciatingly, glutting his cruelty with the agonized writhings and screamings of his fair victim.

A heavy step sounded behind them and a rough voice swore in an unfamiliar tongue. The Turkoman wheeled, beard bristling in a ferocious snarl. The half fainting girl stumbled back against a divan, her hand to her breast. It was a mailed Frank who had entered the chamber and to the girl’s dizzy gaze he loomed like an iron clad giant. Over six feet in height he stood, and his shoulders and steel clad limbs were mighty. From his heels to his heavy vizorless helmet he was heavily armored and his sun-darkened, scarred features added to the sinister import of his appearance. There was no stain of blood on his mail and his sword hung sheathed at his girdle. The girl knew that he could be but one man – Cormac FitzGeoffrey, the Frankish outlaw who hunted at times with the Turkoman pack.

Now he strode ponderously toward them, growling a warning at the warrior, whose eyes burned with a feral light. The Turkoman spat a curse and leaped like a lean wolf, thrusting fiercely. A mail clad arm brushed the spear aside and almost with the same motion, Cormac caught the Turkoman’s throat with his left hand in a vice-like grip, and with his clenched right struck his victim a mallet-like blow on the temple. Beneath the mailed fist, the tribesman’s skull caved in like a gourd and Cormac let the twitching corpse fall carelessly at his feet. Zuleika stood silent, head bowed in submission, as resigned to this new master as to the other, but the Frank showed no signs of claiming his prey. He turned away, with a single casual glance at the girl, then stopped short as his brief gaze rested on her pale face. His eyes narrowed and he approached her. She stood before him, like a child before his overshadowing bulk.

He laid his mailed hand on her frail shoulder and her knees bent beneath the unconcious weight of it. She raised her head to look into his face. His blazing blue eyes seemed to her like those of a jungle beast.

“Girl, how are you named?” he rumbled in Arabic.

“Zuleika, master,” she answered in the same language.

He was silent, as if he pondered. His scarred face was inscrutable but she caught the new glint in his volcanic eyes. Without a word he picked her up in his left arm as a man might take up a baby. His captive voiced no protest as he carried her out into the street. Kismet. No woman knew what Fate held in store for her and Zuleika had learned submission in a bitter school.

Smoke was blown through the streets in fitful gusts; the Turkomans were burning the city. Still rose the wails of terror and agony and the yells of gloating rage. Cormac stepped over the body of a Jew that lay in a crimson pool. Zuleika noted with a shudder that his fingers had been cut away – even in death the Jew clung to his pitiful treasures. A wave of nausea surged over her and she pressed her face against her captor’s mailed shoulder, shutting out the sights of horror. A sudden fierce shout caused her to look up again.

Cormac was striding toward a huge black stallion of savage mien that stood with reins hanging in the street, and a tall warrior in heron plumed helmet and gold-chased mail was running toward him, holding a dripping scimitar. Zuleika realized that the warrior desired her, and even in that moment felt that he was mad to dispute possession of a slave with the grim Frank, when so many women could be had for the taking. Cormac shifted her so his body shielded her, and drew his heavy sword. As the warrior leaped in the Frank struck as a lion strikes and the Turkoman’s head rolled in the bloody dust. Kicking aside the slumping body, Cormac reached his steed which reared and snorted with flaring nostrils at the scent of blood. But neither his steed’s restiveness nor his captive hampered the Frank who swung easily into the saddle and galloped toward the shattered gates.

The smoke, the blood and the clamor faded behind them and the upland desert closed in about them. Zuleika glanced up at the grim, inscrutable face of her new master and a strange whimsy crossed her mind. What girl has not dreamed of being borne away on the saddle bow of her prince of romance? So Zuleika had dreamed in other days. Long suffering had cleansed her of bitterness, but she wondered helplessly at the whim of chance. “On the saddle-bow she was borne away” but her garments were not the robes of a princess but the shift of a slave, not to the lilt of harps she rode, but the slavering howls of horror and slaughter, and her captor was not the prince of her childish dreams but a grim outlaw, stark and savage as the mountain land that bred him.

CHAPTER 2

The castle of the Sieur Amory set in the midst of a wild land. Built originally by Crusaders, it had fallen to the Seljuks, from whom it had again been captured by the craft and desperate courage of its present owner. It was one of the few waste-land hold that remained to the Franks, an outpost that rose boldly in hostile land. Leagues lay between Amory’s keep and the nearest Christian castle. South lay the desert. To the east, across the sands loomed the wild mountains wherein lurked savage foes.

Night had fallen and Amory sat in an inner chamber listening attentively to his guest. Amory was tall, rangy and handsome with keen grey eyes and golden locks. His garments had once been rich and costly but now they were worn and faded. The gems that had once adorned his sword hilt were gone. Poverty was reflected in his apparel as well as in the castle itself, which was barren beyond the wont of even the feudal castles of that rude day. Amory lived by plunder, as a wolf lives, and like a desert wolf, his life was lean and hard.

He sat on the rude bench, chin on fist and gazed at his guests. His was one of the few castles open to Cormac FitzGeoffrey. There was a price on the outlaw’s head and the slim holdings of the Franks in Outremer were barred to him, but here beyond the border none knew what went on in the isolated hold.

Cormac had quenched his thirst and satisfied his hunger with gigantic draughts of wine and huge bits of meat torn by his strong teeth from a roasted joint, and Zuleika had likewise eaten and drunk. Now the girl sat patiently, knowing that the warrior discussed her, but not understanding their Frankish speech.

“And so,” Cormac was saying, “when I heard the Turkomans had laid seige to the city, I rode hard to come up to it, knowing that it would not long withstand them, what with that fat fool of a Yurzed Beg commanding the walls. Well, it fell before I could arrive and when I came into it, the desert men had stripped it bare – the lucky ones had all the loot in sight and the others were scorching the toes of the citizens to make them give up their hidden wealth – but I did find this girl.”

“What of her, then?” asked Amory curiously, “She is pretty – dressed in costly apparel she might even be beautiful. But after all, she is only a half naked slave. No one will pay you much for her.”

Cormac grinned bleakly and Amory’s interest quickened. He had had much dealings with the Irish warrior and he knew when Cormac smiled, things were afoot.

“Did you ever hear of Zalda, the daughter of the Sheikh Abdullah bin Khor, chief of the Roualli?”

Amory nodded and the girl, catching the Arabic words, looked up with sudden interest.

“She was about to be married, three years ago,” said Cormac, “To Khalru Shah, chief of Kizil-hissar, but a roving band of Kurds kidnapped her, and since then no word has been heard of her. Doubtless the Kurds sold her far to the East – or cut her throat. You never saw her? I did – these Bedouin women go unveiled. And this Arab girl, Zuleika, is enough like the princess Zalda to be her sister, by Crom!”

“I begin to see what you mean,” said Amory.

“Khelru Shah,” said Cormac, “will pay a mighty ransom for his bride. Zalda was of royal blood – marrying her meant alliance with the Roualli – the Sheikh is more powerful than many princes – when he summons his war-men, the hoofs of three thousand steeds shake the desert. Though he dwells in the felt tents of the Bedouin, his power is great, his wealth is great. No dowry was to go with the princess Zalda, but Khelru Shah was to pay for the privilege of wedding her – of such pride are these wild Rouallas.

“Keep the Arab girl here with you. I will ride to Kizil-hissar and lay my terms before the Turk. Keep her well concealed and let no Arab see her – she might be mistaken for Zalda, indeed, and if Abdullah bin Kheram gets wind of it, he might bring up against us such a force as to take the castle by storm.

“By continuous riding I can reach Kizil-hissar in three days; I will waste no more than a day in disputing with Khelru Shah. If I know the man, he will ride back with me, with several hundred men. We should reach this castle not later than four days after we depart from the hill-town. Keep the gates close barred while I am away, and ride not far afield. Khelru Shah is as subtle and treacherous – ”

“Yourself,” finished Amory with a grim smile.

Cormac grunted. “When we come, we will ride up to the walls. Then bring you the Arab slave upon the walls of the tower – somewhere you must contrive to find clothing more suited to a captive princess. And impress upon her that she must bear herself, at least while on the wall, with less humility. The princess Zalda was proud and haughty as an empress and bore herself as if all lesser beings were dust beneath her white feet. And now I ride.”

“In the midst of the night?” asked Amory, “Will you not sleep in my castle and ride forth at dawn?”

“My horse is rested,” answered Cormac, “I never weary. Besides, I am a hawk that flies best by night.”

He rose, pulling his mail coif in place and donning his helmet. He took up his shield which bore the symbol of a grinning skull. Amory looked at him curiously, and though he knew the man of old, he could not but wonder at the wild spirit and self-sufficiency that enabled him to ride by night across a savage and hostile land, into the very strong hold of his natural foes. Amory knew that Cormac FitzGeoffrey was outlawed by the Franks for slaying a certain nobleman, that he was fiercely hated by the Saracens as a hold, and that he had half a dozen private feuds on his hands, both with Christian and Moslem. He had few friends, no followers, no position of power. He was an outcast who must depend on his own wit and prowess to survive. But these things sat lightly on the soul of Cormac FitzGeoffrey; to him they were but natural circumstances. His whole life had been one of incredible savagery and violence.

Amory knew that conditions in Cormac’s native land were wild and bloody, for the name of Ireland was a term for violence all over Western Europe. But just how war-shaken and turbulent those conditions were, Amory could not know. Son of a ruthless Norman adventurer on one hand, and a fierce Irish clan on the other, Cormac FitzGeoffrey had inherited the passions, hates and ancient feuds of both races. He had followed Richard of England to Palestine and won a red name for himself in the blind melee of that vain Crusade. Returning again to Outremer to pay a debt of gratitude, he had been caught in the blind whirlwind of plot and intrigue and had plunged into the dangerous game with a fierce zest. He rode alone, mostly, and time and again his many enemies thought him trapped, but each time he had won free, by craft and guile, or by the sheer power of his sword arm. For he was like a desert lion, this giant Norman-Gael, who plotted like a Turk, rode like a Centaur, fought like a blood-mad tiger and preyed on the strongest and fiercest of the outland lords.

Full armed he rode into the night on his great black stallion, and Amory turned his casual attention to the slave girl. Her hands were soiled and roughened with menial toil, but they were slender and shapely. Somewhere in her veins, decided the young Frenchman, ran aristocratic blood, that showed in the delicate rose leaf texture of her skin, in the silkiness of her wavy black hair, in the deep softness of her dark eyes. All the warm heritage of the Southern desert was evident in her every motion,

“You were not born a slave?”

“What does it matter, master?” she asked, “Enough that I am a slave now. Better be born to the whips and chains than broken to them. Once I was free; now I am thrall. Is it not enough.”

“A slave,” muttered Amory, “What are a slave’s thought? Strange – it never before occurred to me to wonder what passes in the mind of a slave – or a beast, either, for that matter.”

“Better a man’s steed, than a man’s slave, master,” said the girl.

“Aye,” he answered, “For there is nobility in a good horse.”

She bowed her head and folded her slender hands, unspeaking.

CHAPTER 3

Dusk shadowed the hills when Cormac FitzGeoffrey rode up to the great gate of Kizil-hissar, the Red Castle, which gave its name to the town it guarded and dominated. The guardsmen, lean, bearded Turks with the eyes of hawks, cursed in amazement.

“By Allah, and by Allah! The wolf has come to put his head in the trap! Run, Yusef, and tell our lord, Suleyman Bey, that the infidel dog, Cormac, stands before the gates.”

“Ho there, you upon the walls!” shouted the Frank. “Tell your chief that Cormac FitzGeoffrey would have speech with him. And make haste, for I am not one to waste time in dallying.”

“Hold him in parley but a moment,” muttered a Moslem, crouching behind a bastion, and winding his cross-bow – a ponderous affair captured from the Franks, “I’ll send him to dress his shield in Hell.”

“Hold!” this from a bearded, lean old hawk whose eyes were fierce and wary, “When this chief rides boldly into the hands of his enemies, be sure he has secret powers. Wait until Suleyman comes.” To Cormac he called curteously, “Be patient, mighty lord; the prince Suleyman Bey has been sent for and will soon be upon the walls.”

“Then let him come in haste,” growled Cormac, who was in no more awe of a prince than he was of a peasant, “I will not await him long.”

Suleyman Bey came upon the great walls and looked down curiously and suspiciously upon his enemy.

“What want ye, Cormac FitzGeoffrey?” he asked, “Are you mad, to ride alone to the gates of Kizil-hissar? Have you forgotten there is feud between us? That I have sworn to sever your neck with my sword?”

“Aye, so you have sworn,” grinned Cormac, “And so has sworn Abdullah bin Kheram, and Ali Bahadur, and Abdallah Mirza the Kurd. And so, in past years and in another land, swore Sir John Courcey, and the clan of the O’Donnells and Sir William le Botelier, yet I still wear my head firmly on my shoulders.

“Harken till I tell you what I have to say. Then if you still wish my head, come out of your stone walls and see if ye be man enough to take it. This concerns the princess Zalda, daughter of Sheikh Abdullah bin Kheram – on whose name, damnation!”

Suleyman Bey stiffened with sudden interest; he was a tall, slender man, young, and handsome in a hawk-like way. His short black beard set off his aristocratic features and his eyes were fine and expressive, with shadows of cruelty lurking in their depths. His turban was scaled with silver coins and adorned with heron plumes, and his light mail was crusted with golden scales. The hilt of his slender, silver chased scimitar was set with gleaming gems. Young but powerful was Suleyman Bey, in the hill town upon which he had swooped with his hawks a few years before and made himself ruler. Six hundred men of war he could bring to battle, and he lusted for more power. For that reason he had wished to ally himself with the powerful Roualla tribe of Abdullah bin Kheram.

“What of the princess Zalda?” he asked.

“She is my captive,” answered Cormac.

Suleyman Bey started violently, his hand gripped his hilt, then he laughed mockingly.

“You lie; the princess Zalda is dead.”

“So I thought,” answered Cormac frankly, “But in the raid on the city, I found her captive to a merchant who knew not her real identity, she having concealed it, fearing lest worse evil come to her.”

Suleyman Bey stood in thought a moment, then raised his hand.

“Open the gates for him. Enter, Cormac FitzGeoffrey, no harm shall come to you. Lay down your sword and ride in.”

“I wore my sword in the tent of Richard the Lion-hearted,” roared the Norman, “When I unbuckle it in the walls of my foes, it will be when I am dead. Unbar those gates, fools, my steed is weary.”

Within an inner chamber of silk and crimson hangings, crystal and gold and teak-wood, Suleyman Bey sat listening to his guest. The young chief’s face was inscrutable but his dark eyes were absorbed. Behind him stood, like a dark image, Belek the Egyptian, Suleyman’s right-hand man, a big, dark powerful man with a satanic face and evil eyes. Whence he came, who he was, why he followed the young Turk none knew but Suleyman, but all feared and hated him, for the craft and cruelty of a black serpent was in the abysmal brain of the Egyptian.

Cormac FitzGeoffrey had laid aside his helmet and thrown back his mail coif, disclosing his thick, corded throat, and his black, square cut mane. His volcanic blue eyes blazed even more fiercely as he talked.

“Once the princess Zalda is in your hands you can bring the Sheikh to terms. Instead of paying him a great price for her, you can force him to pay you a dowery. He had rather see her your wife, even at the cost of much gold, than your slave. Once married to her, then, he will join forces with you. You will have all that you planned for three years ago, in addition to a rich dowery from the Sheikh.”

“Why did you not ride to him instead of to me?” abruptly asked Suleyman.

“Because you have such things as we desire, my friend and I. Abdullah is more powerful than you, but his treasure is less. Most of his belongings consist of cattle – horses – arms – tents – fields – the belongings of a nomad chief. Here in this castle you have chests of golden coins looted from caravans and taken as ransom for captive knights. You have gems – silver – silks – rare spices – jewelry. You have what we desire.”

“And what proof have I that you are not lying?”

“Ride with me tomorrow,” grunted Cormac, “To the castle of my friend.”

Suleyman laughed like a wolf snarling.

“You would lead us into a trap,” said the Egyptian.

“Bring three hundred men with you, bring as many as you like, the whole band of thieves,” said Cormac, “Where do you think I would get enough warriors to trap your whole host?”

“Where is she being held?” asked the Seljuk.

“In the castle of the Sieur Amory, three, four days ride to the west,” said Cormac, “You could never take it by assault.”

“I am not sure,” muttered Suleyman, “The lord Amory has only some forty men-at-arms.”

“But the castle is impregnable.”

“So I have heard.”

The Egyptian’s eyes narrowed.

“We might seize you and hold you for ransom,” he suggested, “And force the Sieur Amory to return the girl.”

Cormac laughed savagely and mockingly.

“Amory would laugh at you and tell you to cut my throat and be damned, or he would cut the throat of the girl as it struck him. Besides, though I am in your castle, surrounded by your warriors, I am not entirely helpless. Seek to take me and I will flood these walls with blood before I die.”

It was no idle boast as the Moslems well knew.

“Enough!” Suleyman made an impatient gesture, “You were promised safety – what’s that?”

A commotion had arisen without; a scuffling, shouts, threats and maledictions in the Arab tongue. The outer door was thrust open and a bearded Turk who had been guarding the door entered, dragging a struggling victim whose beard bristled with wrath. He clung to a pack from which spilled various trinkets and ornaments.

“I found this dog sneaking about in an adjoining chamber, master,” rumbled the guardsman, “Methinks he was eavesdropping. Shall I not strike off his head?”

“I am Ali bin Nasru, an honest merchant!” shouted the Arab angrily and fearfully, “I am well known in Kizil-hissar! I sell wares to shahs and sheikhs and I was not evesdropping. Am I a dog to spy upon my patron? I was seeking the great chief Suleyman Bey to spread my goods before him!”

“Best cut out his tongue,” growled Belek, “He may have heard too much.”

“I heard nothing!” clamored Ali, “I have but just come into the castle!”

“Beat him forth,” snapped Suleyman Bey in irritation, “Shall I be pestered by a yapping cur? Lash him out and if he comes again with his trash, strip him and hang him up by his feet in the market-place for the children to pelt with stones. Cormac, we ride at dawn, and if you have tricked me, make your peace with Allah!”

“And if you seek to trick me,” snarled Cormac, “make your peace with the Devil for you will swiftly meet him.”

It was past midnight when a form climbed warily down a rope let down from the outer wall of the town. Hurriedly making his way down the slopes, the man came soon upon a thicket where was securely hidden a swift camel and a bulky pack – for the man was not one to trust all his belongings in a town ruled by Turks. Recklessly casting aside the pack, the man mounted the camel and fled southward.

CHAPTER 4

Amory rested his chin on his fist and gazed broodingly at the Arab girl, Zuleika. In the past days he had found his eyes straying often to his slender captive. He wondered at her silence and submission, for he knew that at some time in her life, she had known a higher position than that of a slave. Her manners were not those of a born serf; she was neither impudent nor servile. He guessed faintly at the fierce and cruel school in which she had been broken – no, not broken, for there was a strange deep strength in her that had not been touched, or if touched, only made more pliable.

She was beautiful – not with the passionate, fierce beauty of the Turkish women who had lent him their wild love, but with a deep, tranquill beauty, of one who’s soul has been forged in fierce fires.

“Tell me how you came to be a slave,” the voice was one of command and Zuleika folded her hands in acquiesence.

“I was born among the black felt tents of the south, master, and my childhood was spent upon the desert. There all things are free – in my early girlhood I was proud, for men told me I was beautiful, and many suitors came to woo me. But there came others, too – men who wooed with naked steel and me they carried off.

“They sold me to a Turk, who soon wearied of me and sold me again to a Persian slave-dealer. Thus I came into the house of the merchant of the city, and there I toiled, a slave among the lowest slaves. My master once offered me my freedom if I would return his love but I could not. My body was his; my love he could not shackle. So he made of me his drudge.”

“You have learned deep humilty,” commented Amory.

“By scourge and shackle and torture and toil I have learned, master,” she said.

“Do you know what we mean to do with you?” he asked bluntly. She shook her head.

“Cormac thinks you resemble the princess Zalda,” said Amory, “And it is our intention to cheat Suleyman Bey with you. We will show you to him on the wall, and I think he will pay a high price for you. When we have delivered you to him, you will have your chance. Play your cards well and perchance you may bewitch him, so when he learns of the trickery, he will not put you aside.”

Again Amory’s eyes swept over her slim form. A pulse began to thrum in his temple. For the time being, she was his; why should he not take her, before he gave her into the arms of Suleyman Bey? He had learned that what a man wants he must take. With a single long stride he reached her and swept her into his arms. She made no resistance, but she averted her face, drawing her head back from his fierce lips. Her dark eyes looked into his with a deep hurt and suddenly he felt ashamed. He released her and turned away.

“There are some garments I bought from a wandering band of gypsies,” he said abruptly, “Put them on; I hear a trumpet.”

Across the desert a distant trumpet was faintly sounding. Amory had his men in full armor lining the walls, weapons in hand, when the horsemen rode up to the castle gate, which was flanked by a tower.

Amory hailed them. He saw Suleyman Bey in heron plumed helmet and gold scaled mail, sitting his black mare. Close behind him sat Belek the Egyptian on a bay horse, and beside the chief, Cormac FitzGeoffrey on his great stallion. And Amory grinned. Was it not strange to see the man riding in the company of those who had sworn to cut his throat? Some three hundred riders were ranked behind the chief.

“Ha, Amory,” said Cormac, “Fetch forth the princess – let her be shown upon the wall of the tower that Suleyman Bey be convinced; he thinks us liars, by the hoofs of the Devil!”

Amory hesitated, as a sudden revulsion shook him, then with a shrug of his shoulders he made a gesture to his men-at-arms. Zuleika was escorted out upon the wall above the gate and Amory gasped. Rich clothes had wrought a transformation in the slave girl; indeed she wore them as if she had never worn the flimsy rags of a serf. She did not carry herself with the haughty pride of a princess, thought Amory, but there was a certain quiet dignity about her, a certain proud humility that many of royal blood might well copy.

Suleyman Bey gasped also; he gazed at her in bewilderment and reined closer.

“By Allah!” he said in amazement, “Zalda! Is it she? No – yes – by Asrael, I cannot say! She does not carry her chin as she did, if it be she, and yet – yet – by the gods, it must be she!”

“Of a surety it is the princess Zalda,” rumbled Cormac, “By Satan, do you think there is no faith in Franks? Well, chief, what say you? Is she worth ten thousand pieces of gold to you?”

“Wait,” answered the Turk, “I must have time to consider. This girl is alike the princess Zalda as can be – yet her whole bearing is different – I must be convinced. Let her speak to me.”

Amory nodded to Zuleika, who gave him a pitiful look, then raising her voice, said: “My lord, I am Zalda, daughter of Abdullah bin Kheram.”

Again the Turk shook his hawk-like head.

“The voice is soft and musical like Zalda’s, but the tone is different – the princess was used to command and her tone was imperious.”

“She has been a captive,” grunted Cormac, “Three years of captivity can change even a princess.”

“True – well, I will ride to the spring of Mechmet which lies something more than a mile away, and there camp. Tomorrow I will come to you again and we will talk on the matter. Ten thousand pieces of gold – a high price to pay, even for the princess Zalda.”

“Good enough,” grunted Cormac. “I’ll remain at the castle – and mark you, Suleyman – no tricks. At the first hint of a night onset we cut Zalda’s throat and throw her head to you. Mark!”

Suleyman nodded absent mindedly and rode away at the head of his riders, in deep converse with the dark faced Belek. Cormac rode in through the gate which was instantly barred and bolted behind him, and Zuleika turned to go into her chamber. Her head was bent, her hands folded; again she had assumed the manner of the slave. Yet she paused a moment before Amory and in her dark eyes was a deep hurt as she said: “You will sell me to Suleyman, my lord?”

Amory flushed darkly – not in years had the blood thus suffused his face. He sought to reply and groped for words. Unconciously his mailed hand sought her slim shoulder, half caressingly. Then he shook himself and spoke harshly because of the strange conflicting emotions within him: “Go to your chamber, wench; what affair of yours is it what I do?”

And as she went, head sunk on her breast, he stood looking after her, clenching his mailed fists until the fingers cracked, and cursing himself bewilderedly.

CHAPTER 5

Cormac FitzGeoffrey and Amory sat in an inner chamber, though the hour was late. Cormac was in full armor, except for his helmet, as was Amory. The mail coifs of both men were drawn back upon their shoulders, disclosing Amory’s yellow locks and Cormac’s raven mane. Amory was silent, moody; he drank little, talked less. Cormac on the other hand, was in an mood of deep satisfaction. He drank deep and his gratification led him into a reminiscent mood.

“Wars and massed battles I have seen in plenty,” said he, lifting his great goblet, “Aye – I fought in the battle of Dublin when I was but eight years old, by the hoofs of the Devil! Miles de Cogan and his brother Richard held the city for Strongbow – men of iron in an iron age. Hasculf Mac Turkill, king of Dublin, who had been driven into the Orkneys, came sailing up the strand with sixty-five ships – galleys of the heathen Norsemen, whose chief was the berserk Jon the Mad – and mad he was, by the hoofs of Satan! So Hasculf came back to win his city again, with his Danes and Dano-Irish, and his allies from Norway and the Isles.

“Word of the war came into the west, where I was a boy running half naked on the moors, in the land of the O’Briens. We had a weapon-man whose name was Wulfgar and he was a Norseman. ‘I will strike one more blow for the sea-people,’ he said, and he went across the bogs and the fens as a wolf goes, and I went with him with my boy’s bow, for the urge of wandering and blood-letting was already upon me. So we came upon Dublin strand just as the battle was joined. By Satan, the Norsemen drove the Normans back into the city and were shattering the gates when Richard de Cogan made a sortie from the postern gate and fell upon them from the rare. Whereupon Sir Miles sallied from the main gates with his knights and the ravens fed deep! By Satan, there the axes drank and the swords failed not of glutting!

“So Wulfgar and I came into the battle and the first wounded man I saw was an English man-at-arms who had once crushed my ear lobe to a pulp so that the blood flowed over his mailed fingers, to see if he could make me cry out – I did not cry out but spat in his face, so he struck me senseless. Now this man knew me and called me by name, gasping for water. ‘Water is it?’ said I, ‘Its in the icy rivers of Hell you’ll quench your thirst!’ And I jerked back his head to cut his throat, but before I could lay dirk to gullet, he died. His legs were crushed by a great stone and a spear had broken in his ribs.

“Wulfgar was gone from me now and I advanced into the thick of the battle, loosing my arrows with all the might of my childish muscles, blindly and at random, so I do not know if I did scathe or not, or to whom, for the noise and shouting confused me and the smell of blood was in my nostrils, and the blindness and fury of my first massed battle upon me.

“So I came to the place where Jon the Mad was leagued with a few of his Vikings by the Norman knights – by Saint John, I never saw a man strike such blows as this berserk struck! He fought half naked and without mail or shield, and neither buckler nor armor could stand before his axe. And I saw Wulfgar – on a heap of dead he lay, still gripping a hilt from which the blade had snapped in a Norman knight’s heart. He was passing swiftly, his life ebbing from him in thick crimson surges but he spoke to me, faintly and said: ‘Bend your bow, Cormac, against the big man in chain mail armor.’ And so he died and I knew he meant Miles de Cogan.

“But at that moment Jon, bleeding from a hundred wounds, struck a blow that hewed off a knight’s leg at the hip, though cased in heavy mail, and the axe haft splintered in the Viking’s hand, and Miles de Cogan gave him his death stroke. Now all the Norsemen were dead or fled, and the men-at-arms dragged King Hasculf Mac Torkill before Miles de Cogan, who had his head severed on the spot. Now that sight maddened me, for though I loved not the Dane, I hated the Normans more, and running forward across the torn corpses, I bent my bow against Miles de Cogan. It was my last arrow and it splintered on his breast plate. A man-at-arms caught me up and held me high for Miles to view, while I cursed him in Gaelic and broke my milk teeth on his mail-clad wrist.

“ ‘By Saint George,’ said Miles, ‘It’s Geoffrey the Bastard’s Irish wolf-cub!’

“ ‘Crush him,’ said Richard de Cogan, ‘He’s half Gael – he’ll make a wolf for the O’Briens.’

“ ‘He’s half Geoffrey,’ said Miles, ‘He’ll make a good soldier for the king.’

“Well, both were right, but Miles came to curse the day he spared me. When I met him again in battle, years later, I gave him a wound that marked him for life.

“Barren fighting, in a barren land. By Satan, it seems though that now we are to be rewarded for our zeal. Did you station all the men-at-arms on the walls? It’s a dark, star-less night and we must beware of Suleyman Bey. Ha, we’ve cozened him! We are as good as richer by ten thousand gold pieces! Then you can rebuild this castle – hire more men-at-arms – buy armor and weapons. As for me, I’ll gather together a band of cut-throat ruffians and fare east in quest of some fat city to loot.”

“Cormac,” Amory’s eyes were dull and troubled, “What think you that Suleyman Bey will do with the girl Zuleika when he finds we’ve tricked him? Will he not slay her in his anger?”

“Not he,” Cormac drank deep, “He’ll use her to trick old Abdullah bin Kheram as we’ve tricked him. If the girl plays her cards right, she may be a queen yet.”

“Cormac,” said Amory abruptly, “I cannot do it.”

The Norman glared at him in bewilderment.

“What are you talking about?”

Amory spread his hands helplessly. “I am sorry. I realized it while she was on the wall – I cannot let this girl go – I love her – ”

“What!” exclaimed Cormac, completely dumfounded, “You mean you will keep her – not give her up to Suleyman Bey – why – !”

“I love her,” said Amory doggedly, “That is the only excuse I can give.”

Blue sparks of Hell’s fire began to flicker in Cormac’s eyes. His mailed fingers closed on the goblet and crunched it into ruin.

“You’d trick me, eh?” he roared, “You’d cheat me! Its wolf bite wolf, is it, with your damned lust? You French dog, I’ll send you to pare the Devil’s nails!”

Amory reached swiftly for his sword as Cormac lunged from his seat, but the giant Irishman plunged full at his throat, splintering the heavy table to match-wood. Before the young Frenchman could clear his blade, the impact of Cormac’s hurtling mail-clad body knocked him staggering and he was fighting desperately to keep the Norman’s iron fingers from his throat. One of Cormac’s hands had locked like a vise in a fold of Amory’s mail at his neck, barely missing the throat and the other hand snapped for a death-hold. Amory’s face was pale for he had seen Cormac tear out a giant Turk’s throat with his naked fingers and he knew that once those iron hands closed on his gullet, no power on earth could loosen them before they tore out the life that pulsed beneath.

About the room they fought and wrestled, those two great, mailed fighting men, in a strange, silent battle. Cormac made no attempt to draw steel and Amory had no time to do so. With all his skill, swiftness and power, he was fighting a losing fight to keep clear of those terrible, clutching hands. Amory struck with all his power, driving his clenched, iron guarded fist full into Cormac’s face and blood spattered, but the terrific blow did not check the Norman in the slightest – Amory did not even think Cormac blinked. They crashed headlong into the ruins of the table and as they fell, close-clinched, Cormac roared short and thunderous, as his fingers locked at last in the hold he had sought. Instantly Amory’s head began to swim and the candle-light went bloody to his distended gaze. Cormac’s fingers were sunk in the loose folds of his coif which, thrown back from his head, lay loosely about his neck, and only this saved him from instant death, but even so he felt his senses going. He tore and ripped futiley at Cormac’s wrists; his head was bent back at an excruiating angle – his neck was about to snap – there came a swift rush of feet in the corridor without – a wild eyed man-at-arms burst into the chamber.

“My lords – masters – the paynim – they are within the wall and the castle burns!”

CHAPTER 6

The sounds of the castle faded as the guardsmen took up their posts and the rest composed themselves for sleep. In the great hall the beggar stirred; from his rags eyes strangely unsuited to a beggar glinted; eyes like a baskilisk’s. With a swift motion he rose, throwing off his filthy, tattered garments, revealing the mephistophelean countenance and pantherish form of Belek the Egyptian. Clad only in a striped loin cloth and with a long dagger in his hand, he stole through the great hall and up the winding stair like a ghost.

Over all the castle silence reigned; before Zuleika’s door the sleepy man-at-arms yawned and leaned on his pike drowsily. What use for a guard before an inner chamber? What pagan could win through the walls without rousing the whole force of the defenders? The guard did not hear the naked feet that stole noiselessly along the flags. He did not see the dusky figure that glided behind him. But he felt suddenly an iron arm encircle his throat strangling the startled yell that sought to rise to his lips, he felt the momentary agony of a hard driven blade that pierced his heart, and then he felt no more.

Belek eased the limp body to the floor and swiftly detached the keys from the belt. He selected one and opened the door, working with speed but silence. He slipped inside, closing the door.

Zuleika wakened with the realization that some one was in her chamber, but in the utter darkness she could see no one. But Belek could see like a cat in the dark. Zuleika felt a sudden hand clapped over her mouth and as she instinctively lifted her hands to ward off that attack, her slim wrists were pinioned together.

“Keep still, princess,” hissed a voice in the gloom, “If you scream, you die.”

The hand was withdrawn from her lips and Zuleika felt her hands being bound; next a gag was placed in her mouth. Belek the Egyptian had his own ideas about handling women. He had been sent to rescue Zuleika, yes; but he knew that women quite often prefer not to be rescued from their captors and he was taking no chances that the girl might prefer to remain with her present masters than to ride away with Suleyman Bey. Belek did not intend that a woman’s scream should bring him to his doom.

He lifted his slender captive and carrying her carefully over one shoulder, stole down the corridor cautiously, dagger ready. He descended the stair and stole through the great kitchin. He heard the cook snoring in the pantry. Ordinarily it would have been impossible for a man to steal through the castle of the Seiur Amory without detection, but tonight all the men were on the walls, or else sleeping soundly awaiting their call to guard-duty.

Belek warily unbolted a small door and slipped outside, keeping close to the walls. It was dark as pitch, low hanging clouds obscuring the stars, and there was no moon. Belek hesitated, for the moment uncertain; then he crossed the courtyard swiftly and entered the stables. He knew that Cormac’s great black stallion was quartered here, and he trembled lest he rouse the full passion of the savage brute, which might make enough noise to wake the whole castle. But Belek’s stealthy entrance caused no commotion; the great beast had his stall in another part of the stables. The Egyptian laid the girl in an empty stall, first tying her ankles, then stole swiftly back to the castle. Entering the kitchin he crossed to the small room where firewood was kept piled, and busied himself a few moments. Then he shut the door and hurriedly left the castle once more. A faint, grim smile played over his thin lips.

And now he was ready for the most dangerous part of his daring night’s work. Crouching like a panther he stole across the courtyard to the postern gate. A single man-at-arms stood there, leaning on his spear and half asleep; it was the hour of darkness before dawn when vitality is at a low ebb. Belek crouched and leaped, silent and deadly as a panther. His mighty hands locked about his victim’s throat and the man died without a cry.

Belek worked cautiously at the gate, felt it move beneath his hands and swing inward. He crouched silently, almost holding his breath, straining his eyes into the night. He could make out the dim somber reaches of the desert knifed with ravines and gulches; were men moving out there? Not even the keen eyed Egyptian could tell for the clouds hung low and deep darkness rested over all. He thought of returning for the girl and slipping out with her, then abandoned the plan. The men on the wall above him were not asleep. Their low voiced snatches of conversation reached him from time to time. He had stolen to the postern gate and killed his man almost beneath their feet, but it was behind their back. Their gaze was turned outward; they would see anything that moved just without the wall and if he stole forth, arrows would fall like rain about him. Alone he would have taken the risk; but he dared not take the chance with the girl.

Out among the ravines a jackal yapped three times and ceased. Belek grinned fiercely; Suleyman Bey had not failed to carry out his part of the plan. Behind him he heard a cracking and snapping that grew and grew; a lurid light became apparent through the aperture of the castle and the men on the wall began to talk loudly and nastily as a sudden wild yell went up from inside the keep. As if in answer a clamor of ferocious shouts sounded from the desert outside and suddenly the darkness was alive with charging shadows.

Belek shouted once himself, in fierce triumph, and ran swiftly to the stable where he had left the girl.

Untitled Fragment

He knew de Bracy, they having fought against the Saracens together.

“Lord Valdez,” spoke de Bracy, “My friend, Angus Gordon. A free lance he is, new to Palestine and desirous of taking service with some strong lord – such as thou, Diego.”

For de Bracy stood not on formallity with his friends.

The baron looked on me narrowly.

“A Scot, thou sayest? A Highlander?” quoth he.

“A Highlander.” I answered.

“Then little need to ask if you can use that.” indicating the claymore that hung at my side. “All Highlanders are swordsmen. But how of the bow? And the spear?”

“With the long bow I can strike a wand at fifty paces.” I answered, “With the spear I am not accomplished. However, I will venture to run a course with any man you may wish.”

“High words,” he murmured.

“High words for high deeds.” I made answer. “I boast not. You asked me my accomplishments and I have told you. I am not so

Untitled Fragment

The wind from the Mediterranean wafted a thousand scents across the packed bazaar. The surging, disputatious throng that milled there was clamorous and bizarre with the sounds and colors of the East. Lean, hawk-like desert riders, fierce and suspicious as wild dogs in a strange territory, shouldered fat, oily Algerian merchants. Beggars whined for alms, thieves plied their trade, shopmen quarreled with customers and with each other, and every now and then the crowd broke precipitately to right and left as an arrogant-eyed sheikh came galloping through disdainfully careless of the lives and limbs of others – while his turbaned retinue laid lustily right and left with their riding whips. Or a huge Negro, naked except for a loin cloth, would stalk through, or a group of saber girt soldiers would swagger by. And all the while went on the business of barter – buying and selling – Persian sashes, Bokhariot wool, Turkish rugs, weapons from Egypt and Damascus, brass buckles from Afghanistan, spice and monkeys from India, ivory from Nubia.

And there were those who delt in human flesh. On the auction block in the center of the crowded market place stood a little clump of figures, chained and nearly naked, who looked out at the milling buyers with the patience and lethargy of oxen.

Recap of Harold Lamb’s “The Wolf Chaser”

Aruk would have held the Gate of the Winds against Galdan Khan but shall a dwarf halt a giant? So the Frank Hu-Go built a fortress in the pass and manned it with twice a hundred Buriats and for three days he held it against the Kalmucks but on the fourth day Galdan Khan brought up his cannon and, not wishing to die like a rat in cask, and mindful of his promise to Galdan Khan, Hu-Go led his swordsmen against the Turkish camp and they met but Galdan Khan fled like the coward he was and commanded his archers to shoot at the Frank from afar for no man dared to face him in fair combat. His sword was as the blade of twenty men. So Hu-go died like a hero and his soul passed through the Gate in the Skies. Galdan Khan lost two thousand men before the Gate of the Winds and of the defenders there remained only Aruk the Short, nor was it cowardice that saved him. But Galdan Khan was halted and the beams of the rising sun showed the banners of Ukaba Khan coming over the mountain of Otz.

Untitled Fragment

The Persians had all fled and the Kalmuks were all dead but the remnants of the Torguts and the Mongols rallied around thier khan in a solid ring of steel against which the wild charges of the Turks crashed and shattered like sea spray against a great rock. The turbaned forms ringed the circle of the defenders in waist high piles. But not all the still forms were Turks. The Tatars were falling fast. Great gaps appeared in the circle and seeing this, Galdan Khan drew off the light armed troops and while the light Kirghiz horsemen harried the Tatars, the Great Khan formed his heavily armed squadrons, the Janizzaries, and hurled them against his dauntless foes. Like a mighty tidal wave of steel the savage warriors swept across the gory field upon the Unbelievers. The shout of, “Allah il Allah – ras-soul-il-allaho!” rose to the skies and drowned the yells of the Kirghiz and the battle-cry of the Tatars. The Tatar formation was shattered and the warriors of the North were scattered like chaff before a whirlwind. But the battle was not over. Borak still lived and Alashan and Cheke Noyon and Ukaba Khan and some nine hundred Tatar warriors. Until a Tatar’s head is off never say that his fighting is over.

All over the field handfuls of Tatars stood back to back and plied their deadly blades. Some strove to keep with their king but that was impossible. Not for Borak Khan a back-to-back defense. He ranged that sea of whirling swords like a wolf in a sheepfold. Since noon when he had seen the Crescent banner come over the mountain pass he had known his great army was doomed and he had planned like a devil and fought like a wild beast to snatch vivtory from ruin. In vain. In scores, in hundreds and in squadrons his men had fallen and he had seen his khans, his chiefs and his councillors go down one by one. Now his spirit was not that of a king striving to save a great people but the spirit of a man gone mad with hate and the lust of slaughter. He fought like a – a barbarian king, like a man who’s standards are down and who has lost a kingdom. He had emptied his quiver, thrown his javelin, broken his spear, shattered his battle axe and now his gripped a long sword that was bathed in blood from point to hilt. That sword was like the hammer of Thor. In the hand of the devil incarnate that wielded it, it was a living flame. It cleft skulls, severed breasts, shore off heads and ripped up bellies. Borak had become in truth, the Wolf. Only four of his warriors could keep within calling distance of him as he hacked his way from one side of the field to the other, seeking Galdan Khan. These four were Cheke Noyan, Alshan, Ukaba Khan and Atai, chief of the Mongols.

In a space where the dead men were piled high and where no living man remained, the four paused for breath.

“Ai,” gasped Alshan, “the khan is as one possessed. Erlik, what a warrior! A falcon!”

Ukaba Khan smiled. “He is selling his life dearly for he is mad with defeat. That is all that is left to us. The Northern kingdom is no more. Hark, the Janizzaries raise already the cry of triumph. But let them not rejoice until they have the head of Borak Khan. For myself I wish only to die by my chief with my saber red with Turkish blood.”

Alashan sighed. “I should like to see Aina before I die.”

“If I can but face Zemal Noyan for a moment,” said Adai grimly, “I will be content to pass through the Gate In The Skies.”

Cheke Noyon said nothing. He flung his great, curved sword high in the air and caught it. His grizzled, lionlike head went back and from his lips came the terrible quavering yell – the battle-cry of the Grey Wolf Tatars. Swinging his heavy blade he hurled himself into the midst of the battle. The others followed.

The old chroniclers tell of that battle better than my feeble pen can narrate. They tell how the surviving Tatars rangen the field like hungry wolves. Of how Galdan Khan’s three sons and ten of his khans died by the hands of the Tatar chief and his four followers. And of how the four fell one by one. Alashan fell first, guarding his chiefs back. Then Atai bleeding from a hundred wounds, came face to face with Zemal Noyan and the traitor died beneath a Mongol sword and Atai died above him.

The Sign of the Sickle

Flashing sickle and falling grain Witness the glory of Tamerlane. The nations stood up, ripe and tall; He was the sickle that reaped them all. Red the reaping and sharp the blows, Deserts stretched where the cities rose. The sands lay bare to the night wind’s croon, For the Sign of the Sickle hung over the moon. Yet the sickle splintered and left no trace, And the grain grows green on the desert’s face. Mistress of Death

Ahead of me in the dark alley steel clashed and a man cried out as men cry only when death-stricken. Around a corner of the winding way three mantled shapes came running, blindly, as men run in panic and terror. I drew back against the wall to let them go past, and two crowded by me without even seeing me, breathing in hysterical gasps; but the third, running with his chin on his shoulder, blundered full against me.

He shrieked like a damned soul, and evidently deeming himself attacked, grappled me wildly, tearing at me with his teeth like a mad dog. With a curse I broke his grasp and flung him from me against the wall, but the violence of my exertion caused my foot to slip in a puddle on the stones, and I stumbled and went to my knee.

He fled screaming on up the alley, but as I rose, a tall figure loomed above me, like a phantom out of the deeper darkness. The light of a distant cresset gleamed dully on his morion and the sword lifted above my head. I barely had time to parry the stroke; sparks flew as our steel met, and I returned the stroke with a thrust of such violence that my point drove through teeth and neck and rang against the lining of his steel head-piece.

Who my attackers were I knew not, but there was no time for parley or explanation. Dim figures were upon me in the semi-darkness and blades whickered about my head. A stroke that clanged full on my morion filled my eyes with sparks of fire, and abandoning the point in my extremity I hewed right and left and heard men grunt and curse as my edge gashed them. Then, as I stepped back to avoid a swiping cut, my foot caught in the cloak of the man I had killed, and I fell sprawling over the corpse.

There was a fierce cry of triumph, and one sprang forward, sword lifted – but ere he could strike or I could lift my blade above my head, a quick step sounded behind me, a dim figure loomed in the uncertain light, and the downward sweeping blade rang on a sword in mid-air.

“Dog!” quoth the stranger with a curious accent. “Will you strike a fallen man?”

The other roared and cut at him madly, but by that time I was on my feet again, and as the others pressed in, I met them with point and edge, thrusting and slashing like a demon, for I was wild with fury at having been in such a plight as the stranger rescued me from. A side-long glance showed me the latter driving his sword through the body of the man who opposed him, and at this, and as I pressed them, drawing blood at each stroke, the rogues gave way and fled fleetly down the alley.

I turned then to my unknown friend, and saw a lithe, compactly-built man but little taller than myself. The glare of the distant cresset fell dimly upon him, and I saw that he was clad in fine Cordovan boots and velvet doublet, beneath which I glimpsed a glint of fine mesh-mail. A fine crimson cloak was flung over his shoulder, a feathered cap on his head, and beneath this his eyes, cold and light, danced restlessly. His face was clean-shaven and brown, with high cheek bones and thin lips, and there were scars that hinted of an adventurous career. He bore himself with something of a swagger, and his every action betokened steel-spring muscles and the co-ordination of a swordsman.

“I thank you, my friend,” quoth I. “Well for me that you came at the moment which you did.”

“Zounds!” cried he. “Think naught of it. ’Twas no more than I’d have done for any man – Saint Andrew! It’s a woman!”

There being no reply to that, I cleaned my blade and sheathed it, while he gaped at me open-mouthed.

“Agnes de La Fere!” he said slowly, at length. “It can be no other. I have heard of you, even in Scotland. Your hand, girl! I have long yearned to meet you. Nor is it an unworthy thing even for Dark Agnes to shake the hand of John Stuart.”

I grasped his hand, though in sooth, I had never heard of him, feeling steely thews in his fingers and a quick nervous grip that told me of a passionate, hair-trigger nature.

“Who were these rogues who sought your life?” he asked.

“I have many enemies,” I answered, “but I think these were mere skulking rogues, robbers and murderers. They were pursuing three men, and I think tried to cut my throat to hush my tongue.”

“Likely enough,” quoth he. “I saw three men in black mantles flee out of the alley mouth as though Satan were at their heels, which aroused my curiosity, so I came to see what was forward, especially as I heard the rattle of steel. Saint Andrew! Men said your sword-play was like summer lightning, and it is even as they said! But let us see if the rogues have indeed fled, or are merely lurking beyond that crook to stab us in the back as we depart.”

He stepped cautiously around the crook, and swore under his breath.

“They are gone, in sooth, but I see something lying in the alley. I think it is a dead man.”

Then I remembered the cry I had heard, and I joined him. A few moments later we were bending over two forms that lay sprawled in the mud of the alley. One was a small man, mantled like the three who had fled, with a deep gash in his breast that had let out his life. But as I spoke to Stuart on the matter, he swore suddenly. He had turned the other man on his back, and was staring at him in surprize.

“This man has been dead for hours,” quoth he. “Moreover he died not by sword or pistol. Look! See his features how they are swollen and purple? It is the mark of the gallows! And he is clad still in the gibbet-shirt. By Saint Andrew, Agnes, do you know who this is?” And when I shook my head, “It is Costranno, the Italian sorcerer, who was hanged at dawn this morning on the gibbet outside the walls, for practising the black arts. He it was who poisoned the son of the Duke of Tours and caused the blame to be laid upon an innocent man, but Francoise de Bretagny, suspecting the truth, trapped him into a confession to her, and laid the facts before the authorities.”

“I had heard something of this matter,” quoth I. “But I have been in Chartres only a matter of a week.”

“It is Costranno, well enough,” said Stuart, shaking his head. “His features are so distorted I would not have known him, save that the middle finger of his left hand is missing. And this other is Jacques Pelligny, his pupil in the black arts; sentence of death was passed on him, likewise, but he had fled and could not be found. Well, his art did not save him from a footpad’s sword. Costranno’s followers have cut him down from the gibbet – but why should they have brought the body back into the city?”

“There is something in Pelligny’s hand,” I said, prying the dead fingers apart. It was as if, even in death, they gripped what they held. It was a fragment of gold chain, and fastened to it a most curious red jewel that gleamed in the darkness like an angry eye.

“Saint Andrew!” muttered Stuart. “A rare stone, i’faith – hark!” he started to his feet. “The watch! We must not be found by these corpses!”

Far down the alley I saw the glow of moving lanthorns and heard the tramp of mailed feet. As I scrambled up, the jewel and chain slipped from my fingers – it was almost as if they were snatched from my hand – and fell full on the breast of the dead sorcerer. I did not wish to take the time to retrieve it, so I hurried up the alley after Stuart, and glancing back, I saw the jewel glittering like a crimson star on the dead man’s bosom.

Emerging from the alley into a narrow winding street, scarcely better lighted, we hurried along it until we came to an inn, and entered it. Then, seating ourselves at a table somewhat apart from the others who wrangled and cast dice on the wine-stained boards, we called for wine and the host brought us two great jacks.

“To our better acquaintance,” quoth John Stuart, lifting his tankard. “By Saint Andrew, now that I see you in the light, I admire you the more. You are a fine, tall woman, but even in morion, doublet, trunk-hose and boots none could mistake you for a man. Well are you called Dark Agnes. For all your red hair and fair skin there is something strange and dark about you. Men say you move through life like one of the Fates, unmoved, unchangeable, potent with tragedy and doom, and that the men who ride with you do not live long. Tell me, girl, why did you don breeks and take the road of men?”

I shook my head, unable to say myself, but as he urged me to tell him something of myself, I said: “My name is Agnes de Chastillon, and I was born in the village of La Fere, in Normandy. My father is the bastard son of the Duc de Chastillon and a peasant woman – a mercenary soldier of the Free Companies until he grew too old to march and fight. If I had not been tougher than most he would have killed me with his beating before I was grown. When at last he sought to marry me to a man I hated, I killed that man, and fled from the village. One Ettienne Villiers befriended me, but also taught me that a helpless woman is fair play to all men, and when I bested him in even fight, I learned that I was strong as most men, and quicker.

“Later I fell in with Guiscard de Clisson, a leader of the Free Companies, who taught me the use of the sword before he was slain in an ambush. I took naturally to the life of a man, and can drink, swear, march fight and boast with the best of them. I have yet to meet my equal at sword play.”

Stuart scowled slightly as if my word did not please him overmuch, and he lifted his tankard, quaffed deeply, and said: “There be as good men in Scotland as in France, and there men say that John Stuart’s blade is not made of straw. But who is this?”

The door had opened and a gust of cold wind made the candles flicker, and sent a shiver over the men on the settles. A tall man entered, closing the door behind him. He was wrapped in a wide black mantle, and when he raised his head and his glance over the tavern, a silence fell suddenly. That face was strange and unnatural in appearance, being so dark in hue it was almost black. His eyes were strange, murky and staring. I saw several topers cross themselves as they met his gaze, and then he seated himself at a table in a corner furthest from the candles, and drew his mantle closer about him, though the night was warm. He took the tankard proffered him by an apprehensive slattern and bent his head over it, so his face was no longer visible under his slouch hat, and the hum of the tavern began again, though somewhat subdued.

“Blood on that mantle,” said John Stuart. “If that man be not a cutthroat then I am much befooled. Host, another bottle!”

“You are the first Scotsman I ever met,” said I, “though I have had dealings with Englishmen.”

“A curse on the breed!” he cried. “The devil take them all into his keeping. And a curse on my enemies who exiled me from Scotland.”

“You are an exile?” I asked.

“Aye! With scant gold in my sporran. But fortune ever favors the brave.” And he laid hand on the hilt at his hip.

But I was watching the stranger in the corner, and Stuart turned to stare at him. The man had lifted his hand and crooked a finger at the fat host, and that rogue drew nigh, wiping his hands on his leathern apron and uneasy in his expression. There was something about the black-mantled stranger that repelled men.

The stranger spoke, but his words were a mumble, and mine host shook his head in bewilderment.

“An Italian,” muttered Stuart. “I know that jabber anywhere.”

But the stranger shifted into French, and as he spoke, haltingly at first, his words grew plainer, his voice fuller.

“Francoise de Bretagny,” quoth he, and repeated the name several times. “Where is the house of Francoise de Bretagny?”

The inn-keeper began giving him directions, and Stuart muttered: “Why should that ill-visaged Italian rogue desire to go to Francoise de Bretagny?”

“From what I hear,” I answered cynically, “it is no great surprize to hear any man asking for her house.”

“Lies are always told about beautiful women,” answered Stuart, lifting his tankard. “Because she is said to be the mistress of the Duke of Orleans does not mean that she – ”

He froze suddenly, tankard to lip, staring, and I saw an expression of surprize pass over his brown, scarred face. At that moment the Italian had risen, and drawing his wide mantle about him, made for the door.

“Stop him!” roared Stuart, leaping to his feet, and dragging out his sword. “Stop that rogue!”

But at that instant a band of soldiers in morions and breastplates came shouldering in, and the Italian glided out past them and shut the door behind him. Stuart started forward with a curse, to halt as the soldiers barred the way. Striding into the center of the tavern, and roving a stern glance over all the cringing occupants, the captain, a tall man in a gleaming breastplate, said loudly: “Agnes de La Fere, I arrest you for the murder of Jacques Pelligny!”

“What do you mean, Tristan?” I exclaimed angrily, springing up. “I did not kill Pelligny!”

“This woman saw you leave the alley where the man was slain,” answered he, indicating a tall, fair wench in feathers and gauds who cowered in the grasp of a burly man-at-arms and would not meet my gaze. I knew her well, a courtesan whom I had befriended, and whom I would not have expected to give false testimony against me.

“Then she must have seen me too,” quoth John Stuart, “for I was with Agnes. If you arrest her you must arrest me too, and by Saint Andrew, my sword will have something to say about that.”

“I have naught to do with you,” answered Tristan. “My business is with this woman.”

“Man, you are a fool!” cried Stuart gustily. “She did not kill Pelligny. And what if she did. Was not the rogue under sentence of death?”

“He was meat for the hangman, not the private citizen,” answered Tristan.

“Listen,” said Stuart. “He was slain by footpads, who then attacked Agnes who chanced to be traversing the alley at the time. I came to her aid, and we slew two of the rogues. Did you not find their bodies, with masks to their heads to prove their trades?”

“We saw no such thing,” answered Tristan. “Nor were you seen thereabouts, so your testimony is without value. This woman here saw Agnes de La Fere pursue Pelligny into the alley and there stab him. So I am forced to take her to the prison.”

“I know well why you wish to arrest me, Tristan,” I said coolly, approaching him with an easy tread. “I had not been in Chartres a day before you sought to make me your mistress. Now you take this revenge upon me. Fool! I am mistress only to Death!”

“Enough of this idle talk,” ordered Tristan curtly. “Seize her, men!” It was his last command on earth, for my sword was through him before he could lift his hand. The guard closed in on me with a yell, and as I thrust and parried, John Stuart sprang to my side and in an instant the inn was a madhouse, with stamping boots, clanging blades and the curses and yells of slaughter. Then we broke through, leaving the floor strewn with corpses, and gained the street. As we broke through the door I saw the wench they had brought to testify against me cowering behind an overturned settle and I grasped her thick yellow locks and dragged her with me into the street.

“Down that alley,” gasped Stuart. “Other guardsmen will be here anon. “Saint Andrew, Agnes, will you burden yourself with that big hussy? We must take to our heels!”

“I have a score to settle with her,” I gritted, for all my hot blood was roused. I hauled her along with us until we made a turn in the alley and halted for breath.

“Watch the street,” I bade him, and then turning to the cowering wench, I said in calm fury: “Margot, if an open enemy deserves a thrust of steel, what fate doth a traitress deserve? Not four days agone I saved you from a beating at the hands of a drunken soldier, and gave you money because your tears touched my foolish compassion. By Saint Trignan, I have a mind to cut the head from your fair shoulders!’

“Oh, Agnes,” she sobbed, falling on her knees, and clasping my legs. “Have Mercy! I – ”

“I’ll spare your worthless life,” I said angrily, beginning to unsling my sword belt. “But I mean to turn up your petticoats and whip you as no beadle ever did.”

“Nay, Agnes!” she wailed. “First hear me! I did not lie! It is true that I saw you and the Scotsman coming from the alley with naked swords in your hands. But the watch said merely that three bodies were lying in the alley, and two were masked, showing they were thieves. Tristan said whoever slew them did a good night’s work, and asked me if I had seen any coming from the alley. So I thought no harm, and replied that I had seen you and the Scotsman John Stuart. But when I spoke your name, he smiled and told his men that he had his reasons for desiring to get Agnes de La Fere in a dungeon, helpless and unarmed; and bade them do as he told them. So he told me that my testimony about you would be accepted, but the rest, about John Stuart, and the two thieves he would not accept. And he threatened me so terribly that I dared not defy him.”

“The foul dog,” I muttered. “Well, there is a new captain of the watch in hell tonight.”

“But you said three bodies,” broke in John Stuart. “Were there not four? Pelligny, two thieves, and the body of Costranno?”

She shook her head.

“I saw the bodies. There were but three. Pelligny lay deep in the alley, fully clad, the other two around the crook, and the larger was naked.”

“Eh?” ejaculated Stuart. “By Heaven, that Italian! I have but now remembered! On, to the house of Francoise de Bretagny!”

“Why there?” I demanded.

“When the Italian in the inn drew his cloak about him to depart,” answered Stuart, “I glimpsed on his breast a fragment of golden chain and a great red jewel – I believe the very jewel Pelligny grasped in his hand when we found him. I believe that man is a friend of Costranno’s, a magician come to take vengeance on Francoise de Bretagny! Come!”

He set impetuously off up the alley, and I followed him, while the girl Margot scurried away in another direction, evidently glad to get off with a whole skin.

Conclusion from the First Draft

“As that Italian drew his cloak about him, I glimpsed his left hand – it lacked the middle finger!”

“What madness is this?” I muttered.

“Aye, and I glimpsed that cursed red jewel glinting on his bosom. Hark, Agnes, suppose that Costranno knew the secret of bringing corpses back to life. Suppose that the jewel held the secret; that after Pelligny and the others cut him down from the gibbet, they were bringing him to his house to restore life to him, when they were apprehended by those rogues. You dropped the jewel on his bosom. Doubtless the incantations had already been made. Moreover that alley, men tell me is paved with stones from an ancient heathen temple that once stood in a grove outside the city, in the days before Rome.

“If such a man were brought back to life, he would remember slowly. But he would seek vengeance. And it was the testimony of Francoise de Bretagny which hanged Costranno!”

To her house we went swiftly, and found a servant lying in the court strangled, with the marks on his throat of a hand lacking the middle finger. We found another servant who had gone mad from seeing the dead man approach Francoise de Bretagny’s chamber and bear her away in her night shift. We followed down a long flight of stairs the existence of which the girl had known nothing, and came into a mysterious crypt. On a stone dais lay Francoise de Bretagny, naked, and Costranno was raising an seven sided slab of stone in the floor, revealing a black gaping hole in the light of a torch which burned in a niche.

I fought Costranno, while Stuart raved and cursed because he could not come at him. I passed my sword thrice through the undeadman’s body without harming him and only my mail shirt beneath my doublet saved me from his terrific thrusts. At last I struck his head from his body and body and head pitched into the black aperture. Taking the torch, I looked down, and a black arm shot out of the darkness and closed on my doublet, striving to drag me into the hole. I struck down with my torch and the thing let go. I had only a glimpse of a distorted apish black thing falling, and the torch fell, dwindling to a speck of light far below, like a meteor. We replaced the slab and carried Francoise out of the crypt, and into the house above, assured of her protection from the watch of the town.