The old knight listened, resting on his reddened sword;
then he lifted his head, and spoke:
“I am aged and near my death, wine-seller Georgios,
or prince El-Hassan, whichever you may be. In
my youth I swore to make no pact with Paynims, and
in my eld I will not break that vow. While I
can lift sword I will defend my daughter, even against
the might of Saladin. Get to your coward’s
work again, and let things go as God has willed them.”
“Then, Princess,” answered El-Hassan,
“bear me witness throughout the East that I
am innocent of your father’s blood. On his
own head be it, and on yours,” and for the second
time he blew upon the whistle that hung around his
neck.
As the echoes of Hassan’s whistle died away
there was a crash amongst the wooden shutters of the
window behind them, and down into the room leaped
a long, lithe figure, holding an axe aloft. Before
Sir Andrew could turn to see whence the sound came,
that axe dealt him a fearful blow between the shoulders
which, although the ringed mail remained unshorn,
shattered his spine beneath. Down he fell, rolled
on to his back, and lay there, still able to speak
and without pain, but helpless as a child. For
he was paralysed, and never more would move hand or
foot or head.
In the silence that followed he spoke in a heavy voice,
letting his eyes rest upon the man who had struck
him down.
“A knightly blow, truly; one worthy of a Christian
born who does murder for Paynim pay! Traitor
to God and man, who have eaten my bread and now slaughter
me like an ox on my hearth-stone, may your own end
be even worse, and at the hands of those you serve.”
The palmer Nicholas, for it was he, although he no
longer wore the palmer’s robe, slunk away muttering,
and was lost among the crowd in the passage.
Then, with a sudden and a bitter cry, Rosamund swooped
forward, as a bird swoops, snatched up the sword her
sire would never lift again, and setting its hilt upon
the floor, cast herself forward. But its point
never touched her breast, for the emir sprang swiftly
and struck the steel aside; then, as she fell, caught
her in his arms. “Lady,” he said,
loosing her very gently. “Allah does not
need you yet. I have told you that it is not
fated. Now will you pass me your word—for
being of the blood of Salah-ed-din and D’Arcy,
you, too, cannot lie—that neither now nor
afterwards you will attempt to harm yourself?
If not, I must bind you, which I am loth to do—it
is a sacrilege to which I pray you will not force me.”
“Promise, Rosamund,” said the hollow voice
of her father, “and go to fulfil your fate.
Self-murder is a crime, and the man is right; it is
decreed. I bid you promise.”
“I obey and promise,” said Rosamund.
“It is your hour, my lord Hassan.”
He bowed deeply and answered:
“I am satisfied, and henceforth we are your
servants. Princess, the night air is bitter;
you cannot travel thus. In which chamber are
your garments?”
