Crescent and Cross
On the same day that witnessed the deliverance of Rennes, the rising
sun, lighting up a wild mountain pass in southern Spain, revealed two
shadowy figures crouching behind a huge briar-clad rock, halfway up the
hillside. Both kept glancing impatiently down the gorge, as if
expecting some one from that side, but both seemed anxious to avoid
being seen themselves.
The watchers had the light hair and fair faces of northern Europe, and
wore armour of English fashion, which made their presence all the
stranger in a region where, at that time, any Christian who dared enter
it took his life in his hand. For the Moorish power in Spain, though
tottering, still held all Andalusia; and hence the passes of the Sierra
Morena (which, dividing that province from New Castile, formed the
frontier between Christian and Moslem) were then, owing to the
ceaseless raids of the light Saracen cavalry, one of the most perilous
regions in Spain.
“They come not yet,” said the taller man, who wore the gold spurs of a
knight, glancing down the pass for the tenth time; “but they will
doubtless haste to cross the border with their booty ere daylight
overtake them. They cannot be much longer now.”
“Unless they have taken another road and escaped us,” growled the
other, a square, sturdy man-at-arms, whose dinted armour told of hard
service.
“I think not so,” said the knight, calmly. “Yon shepherd who brought
word of their coming must know these mountains well, and has little
cause to love the Saracen robbers, who have taken his all; and this is
their nearest way to their own land. Trust me, by this pass they will
come; and while a hope is left of meeting them, and rescuing our
fellow-Christians whom they are carrying into bondage, here will I
abide, as surely as my name is Alured de Claremont.”
It was indeed Brother Michael’s penitent knight, who had had many a
strange experience since that memorable evening on the hilltop above
Carcassonne.
Setting himself zealously to the work assigned him by the pilgrim-monk,
he had led his wild followers into Spain, and thrown himself, heart and
soul, into the age-long Crusade, by which the Spanish Christians were
winning back their own land, foot by foot, from its Moslem conquerors.
No task was too hard for him, no peril too great; and though ever
foremost in danger, he seemed always to escape unharmed.
So striking, in fact, was this strange immunity, that his men believed
him made proof against weapons by the special grace of Heaven; and his
Moorish foes were equally convinced that he was a mighty enchanter,
against whom neither skill nor valour could avail. Such, indeed, was
their superstitious awe of “The White Knight” (as they called him from
his bright armour and the snowy plume in his helmet), that when he was
known to be abroad, the boldest Saracen raiders were chary of venturing
over the border.
It was to intercept one of these raiding parties that he was now in
ambush with some of his best men; for the rocky ridges flanking the
gorge, voiceless and lifeless as they seemed beneath their shroud of
thin white mist, were all alive with armed men, ready to leap from
their covert at the first gleam of steel far down the shadowy valley,
and straining their ears for the hoof-tramp of the returning spoilers.
At last their patience was rewarded. Faint and far, through the
tomb-like silence, came a dull, distant sound, growing ever louder and
nearer, and shaping itself into the trample of hoofs, and the rattle of
loose stones, and the ring of steel, and the hoarse voices of men, till
a line of turbaned riders began to emerge like spectres from the
ghostly dimness.
And now the hovering mists rolled away before the mounting sun like the
smoke of a battle, revealing at last to the unseen watchers above the
whole length of the Moorish train.
A sad and fearful sight it was, but only too common in that age of
unceasing war. Every weapon was red with murder, and on many a
spear-point was the head of some brave man who had vainly defended his
home against a foe to whom pity was unknown. The spoils of the foray
dangled at the saddles of the fierce Moslems, whose dark, lean faces
glowed with savage triumph; and mingling with their exulting shouts
came cruel taunts and ferocious curses, flung at the wretched captives
who, with bound hands and bleeding feet, toiled wearily up the steep,
stony path, goaded by the merciless spear-points of the ruffians who
were dragging them away to hopeless slavery.
More than one of the unseen watchers above felt a pang of remorse at
the thought of how often he had himself been guilty of the same
outrages as the “heathen hounds” whom he abhorred; but this only
inflamed the righteous wrath of these wild free-lances. Many a strong
hand gripped its sword-hilt as if it would dint the metal, and many a
stout archer drew his arrow to the head as he took sure aim at the
savage throng below, who, with God’s name on their lips, were doing the
devil’s work.
“Mash’ Allah!” (praise to God) cried a tall, gaunt, wild-looking Moor,
evidently one of the leaders. “Yet one short league, and we are on our
own ground once more, and then let the Christian dogs follow us if they
will!”
“They will follow to their death, if they do!” said a second man, with
a savage grin. “There is yet room on our spear-points for more of their
unsainted heads, and the more the better!”
Just then their talk was interrupted by a scream of pain from a thin,
pale, worn-looking woman amid the train of captives, who had gashed her
bare foot deeply on one of the sharp stones that strewed the flinty
path.
“Wilt thou be ever stumbling, mother of asses?” roared the fierce Moor,
who held the cord that bound her bruised and bleeding wrists. “Get
forward quickly, or thou shalt smart for it!”
And with his heavy spear-shaft he struck the poor creature savagely
across the shoulders, forcing from her a fresh shriek of agony.
But hardly was the cowardly blow dealt, when a shaft, whizzing from the
thicket above, pierced through steel and bone to the ruffian’s cruel
heart; and, with a shout that made the air ring, the avengers came
dashing down the hillside on their startled foes.
It was a terrible scene that followed; for in that death-grapple of
warring creeds and races, there could be no thought of mercy. Taken by
surprise, and attacked on both sides at once, the Saracens had not a
chance; and had not some of the assailants been drawn away from the
fight by their eagerness to free the fainting captives, not one Moor
would have been left. As it was, the few whose knowledge of the country
enabled them to plunge into the thickets and escape, were but a
miserable gleaning of that great harvest of death.
While the fight lasted, Alured’s black steed and white plume were
foremost in the fray, bearing down all before them. He was just cutting
the cords that coupled some of the hindmost captives, when he came face
to face with a tall, stately Moorish cavalier, splendidly armed and
mounted, whose green turban showed that he claimed kindred with the
Prophet himself.
This was the leader of the Saracen troop, who, riding with the
rearguard, had taken what he held to be the post of danger, these
over-confident raiders never dreaming of being attacked in front.
Without a word, the two chiefs clashed together, each seeing in the
other the destroyer of his race and the foe of his religion.
For a few moments, the rattle of their blows on helm and harness was as
quick and fierce as the patter of hailstones on a roof. But so equally
were they matched, that no one could have told how the fray was likely
to go; and at last, as if by mutual consent, they paused for breath.
“Christian,” said the Moor, with stern admiration, “I would thou wert
riding with the servants of the Prophet instead of these dogs of Spain,
for thou art the best warrior I have ever faced!”
“I may well say the same of thee,” cried the Englishman, heartily, in
the Saracen’s own tongue, with which his campaigns on the Moorish
border had made him familiar. “Wilt thou yield to my mercy? See, thy
men are scattered, and the day is ours!”
In fact, the Moorish leader was now the only man left fighting, and
around him De Claremont’s men were closing on every side. But not one
offered to lay hand on him, it being so fully recognized a custom of
that age for two commanders to get up a private fight of their own amid
the general battle, that no one ever dreamed of interfering with it.
“Yield?” echoed the Moor, disdainfully; “were I alone in the field
against ye all, to no unbeliever, even to so good a champion as thou,
should Ismail El Zagal (Ishmael the Valiant) yield himself!”
“Art thou indeed El Zagal?” cried Alured, eyeing him with a new
interest; for though he had never met this man before, there were few
Spanish knights on the whole Andalusian border who had not some
marvellous tale to tell of his feats of arms.
“I am,” said the emir; “and thou, Christian chief—thou too hast surely
a name that is famed in war. May I know it?”
“I am he whom thy people call ‘The White Knight.’”
“The White Knight?” cried El Zagal, with a fierce gleam in his large
black eyes. “Nay, if thou be indeed that fell foe of my race and of the
true faith, my blade shall reach thee, though Azraël (the Angel of
Death) claim me the next moment!”
Down came his blade on Alured’s helmet, with such a thunder-stroke that
the knight reeled in his saddle, and his barred visor, broken from its
clasps, fell clanking to the earth.
But, so far from seconding a blow that had brought victory within his
grasp, the Moor let fall his terrible scimitar, and stared at his foe’s
revealed face in mute and stony horror. Had the falling visor disclosed
a skeleton or a demon, instead of the knight’s noble face, El Zagal
could not have looked more astounded and dismayed.
Alured, though not in the least understanding his foe’s sudden panic,
was swift to profit by it. Quick as thought, he clutched the emir’s
wrists, while the Moor, as if actually paralyzed, made no resistance,
and only muttered—
“Is this an illusion of magic, or art thou more than mortal?”
“What mean’st thou, brave Moor?” asked the wondering knight, while his
men (who had closed up to prevent the emir’s escape) looked on in
silent amazement.
[Illustration: “HE STARED AT HIS FOE’S REVEALED FACE”]
“When I left Grenada one moon ago, a Christian slave was at our king’s
court whom he prized so highly, that he would not even let him go
beyond the Alhambra’s gates, lest he should escape; yet now standeth he
before me in thy likeness—for, as truly as the sun shineth above us,
thy face and form, yea, thy very voice, are his!”