God Wills It! A Tale of the First Crusade

"And you, Morgiana," continued Iftikhar, more lightly, "you, with Eleanor, of course will not fail me. I would show these beauties of Aleppo that here hid in our groves are the fairest eyes in Syria."

"Cid," said Morgiana, haughtily, "if you command me, I will obey; otherwise, let me sleep and the rest dance."

"Ya!" cried Iftikhar, testily; "you are gloomy as Gann, lord of the evil jinns! No doing of mine can please you. Wallah, be it as you will! The Star of the Greeks is more kind. To-night! I swear the poets of Emir Redouan shall sing of the fête the whole year long!" So he was gone, and Morgiana turned fiercely on Mary. "Eblees and all his 'Sheytans' of the Pit pluck you away! What have you done? You said yes as though Iftikhar's words were sweet as honey of Lebanon. He will conquer you to-night! Are you blind? Not for the maidens of Aleppo, but for you, this fête is prepared. To-night he will be master of you, soul as well as body. Blind! blind!"

Mary looked into the Arab's face.

"O dear sister," came her words, "you say well. But I am not blind. What more can I do? Love him I do not, as you. But I am helpless; Iftikhar is lord. Better to have an end. Hate him I do not as I did once. Time is kind. I must bow my head, and pray God make me forget the past. There is no other way—none. I can fight the battle no more."

"Dearest heart," cried the Arab, "it is all true. You can do no more. If you were not so pure and lovely, I would have killed you long ago. Only do not triumph over me, when you have learned to love Iftikhar as do I."

"No, blessed soul," said the Greek, softly; "that may never be."

That night all the heavens about El Halebah glowed with the light of myriad torches; lights on the domes and soaring towers; lights flitting among the palm trees; lights tossing behind every myrtle and laurel brake; lights twinkling from under the cool colonnades, and making the mist of the fountains a shimmering spray of diamonds. There were flowers scattered over every walk; flowers festooned about each column; the air made heavy with the breath of rose, pink, and violet. All about were set innumerable banners, streaming to every wind. Fires flashed from the islands upon the lake; and down the enchanted path that led through the woods to the Aleppo road there was a cordon of flambeaux, making the avenue light as day.

So much saw Mary Kurkuas, peering from her lattice, while the maids made her ready and clothed her in robes such as Iftikhar himself had never sent her before. At last the emir stood outside her door with the petition, "O flower more sweet than the rose, I, your slave, pray you, come forth—come forth; the fête is ready; the stars await the moon!"

Mary let them wrap round her face the veil of gauze of Baalbec, and went to meet Iftikhar. Never had the emir been more darkly handsome; his eye flashed with fire out-vying the blaze of the great gems at his girdle. He wore a tiara worth thrice the revenues of the king of France. The sheath of his long cimeter was of beaten gold. And when Mary looked upon him, a strange thrill passed over her—what a man this was, who had loved her even against her will!

"Come forth, O Fairest of the daughters of the Christians! And let the maidens of Syria blush beneath their darker skin: let them mourn, 'Our beauty cannot compare with the loveliness of the Greek who is beloved of Iftikhar Eddauleh!'"

So spoke the emir, and a mysterious spell seemed to fall on Mary. Under his word and nod she was passive as a little child. Once, once only—the vision of Richard Longsword—rough-featured, firm-lipped, framed of iron—passed before her eyes,—how dim it all was! How very far away! Iftikhar took her hand, and led her through the mazy colonnades. And women fair as the dawn brought her a great wreath of cool flowers that she hung about her neck; others threw upon the air a spray of perfumes of Mazendran, while as the two advanced, the lights and torches ever multiplied; they trod onward in a glow of brightness.

"See!" Iftikhar had led her to the balcony of the colonnade, where thronged the nobles of the court of Redouan, all in dresses bright as the sun, but Iftikhar's brightest. Before them and around stretched a wondrous vision. Mary saw the maids and young women of Aleppo, of Sultan Redouan's harem and of his grandees, dancing, as was their custom, in wide circles hand in hand; their white dresses flying, their brown arms twinkling, their violet-black hair streaming to the wind. First they danced yet veiled; then as the dances maddened, they one after another cast the veils aside, and their dark eyes flashed in the torchlight. Round the women in wider circles were others,—three thousand men,—also in white, but with each a glittering cuirass and cimeter. And as the maidens danced the men broke from their ranks, and danced after their kind; crying aloud, and beating their swords against their targets. But the crash of the cymbals, the boom of the copper kettledrums, the wild wail of the hautboys, the flutes, and the tinkling Persian harps, sounded above all. The dancers caught up torches, and made the ground spring with whirring light. As the music quickened, the dances wound their maze yet faster. And now the Ismaelians rushed among the women, mingling with them in the dance; plucking away the veils that were still clinging; catching the cymbals from the musicians' hands and crashing them yet louder. The whole scene seemed fast becoming pandemonium. Mary's eyes throbbed under the flashing of the torches; a desire seemed to spring through her to sway with the mad music—to join in the madder whirl. But as she gazed, Iftikhar lifted his hand, and one of the musicians upon the balcony, putting to his lips a tiny flute, blew across the raging sea of light one note, clear, piercing, tremulous as the bulbul's call. At that note men and maids were stilled, and stood gazing toward the colonnade where was Iftikhar Eddauleh with his captive at his side. Then Iftikhar stepped to the edge of the parapet, and stood in his blazing dress—a very genie in mien and glory. While he stood, lo! every knee was bowed. The women also with the Ismaelians swept their foreheads to the ground; and while they did obeisance, Iftikhar's voice rang out over lawn and grove: "Ye 'devoted' of the Ismaelians; and ye women of Aleppo; slaves of the lord of Alamont, of me his deputy, and his vassal Redouan—behold! Kneel, tremble, adore! For I will show to you the peerless creation of Allah; the Lady of Beauty, the Star of the Greeks, who by the grace of the Most High shall, ere two years speed, be hailed sovereign princess from the western sea to the river of India! Fall down before her! For I say to you: the man or maid who shall cross her will or refuse her adoration shall surely die! Since under Allah she shall hold the lives of you all in the hollow of her hand!"

At the word, the Ismaelians bowed again to the earth; then standing, three thousand voices cried, "We swear by Allah the Omnipotent, our lives and destinies shall hang upon her grace!"

But Iftikhar called, "Let Masudi of Bozra stand forth!"

A tall, handsome young Syrian stepped forward and stood before the balcony, his eyes cast on the ground.

"O man 'devoted' to Allah!" commanded the grand prior, "lay your cuirass upon the earth."

The mandate was implicitly obeyed.

"Take your cimeter! Fall upon it!"

Had the emir said, "Drink of this wine," there had not been less change in the Syrian's face. Not an eyelash quivered, nor did the lips twitch, when he held the keen blade at his breast and dashed himself upon the ground. A single spasm of the limbs, a red glow on the green sward,—that was all. Through all the great host standing under the torchlight there ran not so much as shiver or murmur.

"See, my children!" cried Iftikhar again, "this moment Masudi, your brother, sits down with the maids whose bodies are pure musk,—they who sit waiting by the stream of honey flowing from the root of the tree Tûba. Who else, at my summons, will take the journey thither?"

And the shout came back: "I!" and "I!" and "I!"; so all the three thousand cried it, and many sprang eagerly forward.

"No, my children," warned the emir, upraising his hand. "Allah and our lord on earth, the Cid Hassan Sabah, have need of you. Full soon shall you win all the glory and riches of this world, or the kiss of the houris! And now bear the poor dross of Masudi away, and think on his bliss."

As the eunuchs bore off the dead, Iftikhar spoke to Mary:—

"O Soul of my Soul, bethink you, here are three thousand of like mind to this man; and in the rest of Syria nine thousand more. With such a host we shall conquer the world—the world; and over it, you, my own, shall be sovereign sultana!"

"O Iftikhar," came from the Greek, "who am I to be thus worshipped!" The voice, the throb behind the voice,—the word "Iftikhar," not "master"—were they Mary's own? She felt herself snatched in a current she might not resist. Drifting, drifting, and she knew whither, yet in some strange way did not shrink. Why did the light flash still more brightly in Iftikhar's eyes? Why did his dark beauty become more splendid?

"Come!" was all he said. And in that word there rang a triumph, clearer than if sounded by trumpets. Her hand in his, he led her down the steps of the portico, all strewn with white bells of lilies, a carpet of blooming snow. At the foot of the stair a car which shone like a huge carbuncle; and harnessed to the car two lions, tame as oxen, yet tossing their shaggy manes, and their eyes twin coals of fire. Mary saw the beasts, but did not shrink. She looked upon the emir's face; in it confidence, pride,—and passion beyond words. How splendid he was! How one ought to worship this lord of men, to whom the lords of the beasts crouched submissive! How he had loved her with a love surpassing thought! She entered the car. They put in her hands reins of silken white ribbon. But Iftikhar himself stood at the heads of the lions, leading as if they were camels. Then he spoke: "Shine forth, O Moon, to the beautiful stars! Unveil!" And Mary, her hand answering his nod, swept the gauze from her face. In the same flash all the palace grounds shone with the red glare of Greek fire, so that the flambeaux made shadow; and Mary stood erect in the car, the light making her face bright and fair as the white cloud of summer. As she stood, she knew a tremor ran through the multitude and through the great lords on the portico; and a thousand voices were crying, not by forced acclaim, but out of their hearts: "Beauty of Allah! Fairest of the daughters of genii or men!" Such, and many more, the cries. Mary looked about; eyes past counting were on her. She held her head very proudly. Captive or queen, it was her triumph; and to Iftikhar she owed it all!

The emir led the lions down the long avenue opened for them by the ranks of the Ismaelians, amid the admiring women,—straight toward the lake; and as the car moved, the Greek fire sprang from the very water, red and blue, fantastic flame-columns, whose brightness blotted out the stars. As they advanced, the multitude closed after them; the torches on the palace doubled, trebled; every dome and minaret was traced in light; the music swayed and throbbed like the sighs of an ocean surf. They reached the shore; a second carpet of lilies; a boat, long, narrow, bowered in roses; a high canopy of flowers in the bow; a single negro eunuch standing like an ebon statue at the stern, poising his oar.

"Come!" so again Iftikhar spoke; Mary dismounted. He led her to the boat, seated her upon the roses. The multitude upon the shore stood in silence, all their praises in their eyes. The music was hushed for an instant. Iftikhar nodded to the rower. The oar dipped noiselessly. The boat glided from the shore gently as the tread of a spirit. Iftikhar sat upon the flower-strewn floor of the skiff, looking up into Mary's eyes. This was the end, praise God it was the end; she would do no more now! Iftikhar had conquered. Who of mortal stuff would fail to bend before such love as his; and he—was he not worth all loving?

Neither said a word for a long time. The distance betwixt quay and boat widened slowly. The lights from the gardens spread out shimmering paths of fire upon the black waters. The only sound was the distant music once more throbbing from the palace, the dim shouts of the revellers within the groves, and the drip of the water from the noiseless oar. On high above the feathery palms crept the round disk of the moon. At last Iftikhar, never taking away his gaze, said: "O Mary, my own,—at last, at last,—I have made all good. You are mine now—body, soul, forever; for even in Paradise those who love are not sundered. For you will I strive to win glory as never man strove; a year, two years, and I lead you into Bagdad, first princess of the world. Hassan Sabah grows old; his glory passes to me, to you, whose slave I am,—and you shall be adored from the rising of the sun to its setting."

"Ah! Iftikhar—" but Mary said no more; the emir had interrupted her. "Mine are no vain dreams. Kerbogha, lord of Mosul, is gathering all the might of Mesopotamia for our service. Amaz, emir of Fars, is with us; and the exiled Vizier Muejjed. The Fatimite kalif of Cairo is our ally, if all else prosper. Soon—soon—Bakyarok, the arch-sultan, is fallen, the phantom kalif of Bagdad vanished away, and the hour for the Ismaelians is come."

Again Mary's lips opened; but the emir checked her.

"O my own! why speak of this to-night? Hark, let me sing if I may, as Antar the hero sang the praise of Abla, whose love he won by labors greater than mine; hearken."

And Iftikhar took from the seat a little lute, touched the strings, and sang, while his rich voice stole softly over the waters:—

"Moonlight and starlight clear gleaming,Over the slow waters streaming,Glint on the lake's shining breast;Fairer my love's eyes are beaming,Where the dark wavelets lie dreaming,By the soft oar lightly pressed!"Now while the shore lights are dying,Now while with swifter stroke plying,Flit we across the dim deep;Let us in rapt delight lyingHear the mild wind gently hyingWhere th' sprites night watches keep!"O that for aye I might, sweepingWhere the long willows hang weeping,Feel the musked breeze of the westOver our blessèd bark creeping;Then would I smile in my sleepingBy my love's white arms caressed!"

When he raised his eyes to Mary, she could see they were touched by a gleam of awful fire; and her own breast and face grew warm, flushed with strange heat. The oar of the negro had stopped; the skiff drifted on slowly, slowly. Here toward the centre of the lake the water stretched beneath the moon, a mirror of black glass.

"Mary, my beautiful!" cried Iftikhar, half rising, and he outstretched his arms. And Mary, as if his beck were a magician's, started toward him—the end! But as she stirred, her eye glanced downward; the moonbeams lit on something gleaming upon her hand—the silver ring of Richard Longsword: and a voice sounded, from the very heavens it seemed:—

"Mary de St. Julien, what price may a Christian wife give in exchange for her soul!"

CHAPTER XXXI

HOW MARY REDEEMED HER SOUL

Near midnight—Morgiana had gone to her chamber early, but not to sleep. The throb of the music, the crash of the cymbals, the shoutings and laughter of the thousands,—all these nigh drove her mad. Twice had she tried to shut all out by a fierce resolve to hear no more, and sleep. Useless; sleep was a thousand leagues away. She had stood by her lattice and seen the multitudes swarming down to the illumined quay, had heard the praises of Mary Kurkuas ring up to heaven, had seen the boat glide into the darkness. And the Arab had cast herself on her cushions, and wept and wept, until her tears would no more flow. How long a time sped thus, she might not tell. When next she knew anything save her grief, she heard a light hand thrusting back the curtains from her bed.

"Morgiana." Mary stood holding a little silver lamp. The coronet was still flashing on her flowing hair, the dim light shining on her bare neck and swan-white shoulders. Never in the eyes of her rival had she seemed fairer. Morgiana stirred, stared into Mary's face.

"You have yielded! You are his—his forever! Oh, sorrow, sorrow!" So cried the Arab; but the Greek touched her cheek softly.

"Hush, dear sister! I have not yielded. I have defied him; and this time there is a gulf sprung between us that only death can close. It was an angel from heaven that spoke; I must, I will—escape him! I must fly, fly—or it is best to perish!"

"Fly!" cried Morgiana, startled now. "Allah the Compassionate! You are mad!" Mary checked her.

"No, not mad; only I know that I cannot sell my soul to Iftikhar Eddauleh, though he led me sultana through Bagdad. Listen: I had a terrible scene with him in the boat. God knows what I said or did; I recall nothing, save as out of a frightful dream. But one thing I know, I am the wife of Richard Longsword, and till I know he is numbered with the dead, I will lift eyes to no man, nor angel either; but to Iftikhar Eddauleh never—till the endless ages end! Dear God—I can endure no more. I must—I will—fly!"

"O dearest one," cried Morgiana, troubled greatly, "how may I comfort you? say what? do what? Allah pity us both!"

"He will have pity!" burst out the Greek. "Follow me. When Iftikhar rowed back to the shore he was in a black rage. I hoped he would strike me dead. He did not. The Sultan Redouan and his lords were feasting in the palace. Said Iftikhar to the eunuchs at the quay, 'I must join the revelling, but lead the accursed woman back to the harem; for seven days she shall not see my face, since she likes it so ill.' But the eunuchs were reeling with their wine. I wrapped a veil about me, and evaded them. Then I wandered through the palace, as did the other women come from Aleppo. No one knew me. And as I strayed by the great banqueting hall, I saw one whom they styled Aboun Nedjn, vizier of Redouan, rise and shout the pledge, 'To the confusion of the Christians, and may they soon fight their last before Antioch!' Then I turned to one of the women, and said, 'And are the Christians besieging Antioch?' and she replied: 'How ignorant! All Aleppo knows that they have lain about that city all winter; certain prisoners of theirs have been brought to Aleppo; and now the Lord Iftikhar makes ready to join the great host which Kerbogha, emir of Mosul, is gathering to deliver Antioch and its prince, Yaghi-Sian.' Then I listened no more, but fled straight to you. For I must fly this very night. Think, Morgiana: at Antioch are the Christians; at Antioch are Duke Godfrey, and Raymond, and Tancred; at Antioch, oh, joy! is Richard Longsword, whose soul is more dear than my own!"

"But, sweet sister," protested the Arab, "Antioch, I believe, is twenty of our Eastern leagues away, perhaps sixty of your Frankish miles. How can you make the journey? Alone?"

"To-night!" cried Mary, tearing the gold from her hair. "To-night! All the palace is drunken. Even the 'devoted' are in stupid sleep. No watch is kept, I saw that well. A late slave boy returning to his master in Aleppo—no questions."

"But the dangers of the way! Full of bandits, roving horsemen, the scum of both armies—for such must be afield. You on foot! The hardships; deathly peril!"

"Light of my heart," exclaimed the Greek, "let the jackals prey on me—beasts or more cruel men,—if they be not Iftikhar Eddauleh!"

"Curse him not," blazed the other; "not even you shall speak him ill. Fool, that you do not love him!"

Mary was tearing off her silken dress.

"Morgiana," she said very quietly, "you know the presses where the eunuchs keep their clothes:—bring me a vest and mantle, and a turban,—the coarsest you can find; and heavy shoes, if any fit me. St. Theodore," she cried, looking down at the white thongs of her sandals, where the gems were shining, "how miserable to have such small feet!"

Morgiana obeyed without a word.

"Your skin! Your face white as milk!" she protested, when Mary stood in the costume of a serving-page.

The Greek laughed. "Have I not mocked you often for your Persian 'light of the cheeks' which you keep in that casket? Take your pencils and your kohl, and make me dark and tanned as a true Syrian! Haste; the night is flying!" As she spoke, an iron ball dropped from the water-clock in the corner upon a bell. "An hour after midnight. Quick, if you love me and love yourself!"

Morgiana did her task with all deftness.

"They will search for you. You will be pursued at dawn!"

"Say to Iftikhar," was the ready answer, "that I have wandered from the palace vowing to cast myself in the lake. Let him bid his 'devoted' seek me there."

"Wallah! You are a terrible maid!" cried the Arabian. "But how beautiful a serving-boy!"

"Now," continued Mary, desperately, "shears! my hair!"

"Never," protested the other; "not as I live, shall I touch it. See, I will bind it up beneath your turban. But oh, think better; do not go. The danger is terrible!"

"Morgiana," was the answer, "my husband is at Antioch. Naught can befall me worse than I suffer here. You have been a sweet sister to me; and I leave my kiss for Eleanor. May we never meet again! Farewell."

They kissed each other. Mary saw Morgiana standing in the dim lamplight, her head bowed upon her hands. Then the Greek stole through the dimly lighted halls. When she stepped past the nodding eunuchs who were standing guard at the harem entrance, she felt a little quiver. They gave her never a sign. She wandered across the great entrance hall; only two lamps twinkling high up from the stalactites by the dome,—weird, ghostly light. She stumbled on some form—a man sleeping in his drunkenness; for the law of the Prophet against wine, who had observed that night? She saw dimly low gilt and ebony tables beside the divans, the food still on them. She caught some cakes of bread and thrust them under her girdle, then tasted a cup that had not been drained. The wine was sweet, she did not like it. She wandered on. Here was the portico, where another guard stared at her stupidly. She passed outward, two others passed in; a dying flambeau showed the features of Iftikhar and Hakem. Mary trembled, but one of the pillars was good shelter. The emir had been over his cups, and his face was flushed, his speech thick, rapid. The eunuch as ever was smiling.

"By every evil efreet!" Iftikhar was swearing, "I will make her bend. In the boat I thought to win her kiss; she spat upon me! struggled so that scarce my strength could keep her from casting us into the lake! called the name of her accursed husband! See to her, Hakem. Bring her to more tractable state, and I give a thousand dinars; but let her spurn me again, and by the Brightness of Allah I will teach her she is slave indeed!"

"The Fountain of Omnipotence," replied the eunuch, smoothly, "is too kind. Let the Star of the Greeks be given into my full custody. Let her learn to bow her head to poor Hakem; and it will go hard, unless she is all smiles to Iftikhar Eddauleh."

"Mashallah!" cried the emir, "it shall be as you say. Well, I have sworn I will see her no more for seven days. Tame her, as you will. Sometimes I curse the hour when first I set eyes on her. Why shall I not deal with her as with any slave? Why speak of her love, her favor?—her body I own, assuredly. As for her soul,—Wallah! to us Ismaelians of the upper degree, if man or maid have a soul—it is of too strange stuff to be reckoned with. But come, good slave! I have drunk too deep to-night. Soon I expect word from Kerbogha that our host must move to Antioch; and then I shall have other things in mind than flambeaux and the eyes of a maid."

"My lord speaks with the wisdom of Allah!" fawned the eunuch. "I will go to our little bird to see that she sleeps secure, and in the morning she shall know your will."

They passed within the palace. Mary glided up to the great gate. The yawning porters were just closing.

"Eblees possess you!" cried one, holding up a lantern. "Back into the palace! Will you wander home to Aleppo at this hour? The city gates are barred long ago." But Mary's wits could work fast just now.

"Good brother," said she, jauntily, "I have stayed over-late, I know. But if I fail to return, my master makes my back pay with cold stripes. And I have a friend on the watch at the gate who will open when I call."

"Mashallah! you speak a strange Arabic!" protested the man. "Your hands are small as those of the Star of the Greeks that they say our lord loves better than El Halebah itself."