The Horses Flame and Smoke
On the following morning, when they came into the eating-room of the
inn, Godwin and Wulf found they were no longer alone in the house, for
sundry other guests sat there partaking of their morning meal. Among
them were a grave merchant of Damascus, another from Alexandria in
Egypt, a man who seemed to be an Arab chief, a Jew of Jerusalem, and
none other than the English trader Thomas of Ipswich, their
fellow-passenger, who greeted them warmly.
Truly they seemed a strange and motley set of men. Considering them as
the young and stately widow Masouda moved from one to the other,
talking to each in turn while she attended to their wants, it came into
Godwin’s mind that they might be spies meeting there to gain or
exchange information, or even to make report to their hostess, in whose
pay perhaps they were. Still if so, of this they showed no sign.
Indeed, for the most part they spoke in French, which all of them
understood, on general matters, such as the heat of the weather, the
price of transport animals or merchandise, and the cities whither they
purposed to travel.
The trader Thomas, it appeared, had intended to start for Jerusalem
that morning with his goods. But the riding mule he had bought proved
to be lame from a prick in the hoof, nor were all his hired camels come
down from the mountains, so that he must wait a few days, or so he
said.
Under these circumstances, he offered the brethren his company in their
ramblings about the town. This they thought it wise not to refuse,
although they felt little confidence in the man, believing that it was
he who had found out their story and true names and revealed them to
Masouda, either through talkativeness or with a purpose.
However these things might be, this Thomas proved of service to them,
since, although he was but just landed, he seemed to know all that had
passed in Syria since he left it, and all that was passing then. Thus
he told them how Guy of Lusignan had just made himself king in
Jerusalem on the death of the child Baldwin, and how Raymond of Tripoli
refused to acknowledge him and was about to be besieged in Tiberias.
How Saladin also was gathering a great host at Damascus to make war
upon the Christians, and many other things, false and true.
In his company, then, and sometimes in that of the other guests— none
of whom showed any curiosity concerning them, though whether this was
from good manners or for other reasons they could not be sure—the
brethren passed the hours profitably enough.
It was on the third morning of their stay that their hostess Masouda,
with whom as yet they had no further private talk, asked them if they
had not said that they wished to buy horses. On their answering “Yes,”
she added that she had told a certain man to bring two for them to look
at, which were now in the stable beyond the garden. Thither they went,
accompanied by Masouda, to find a grave Arab, wrapped in a garment of
camel’s hair and carrying a spear in his hand, standing at the door of
the cave which served the purpose of a stable, as is common in the East
where the heat is so great. As they advanced towards him, Masouda said:
“If you like the horses, leave me to bargain, and seem to understand
nothing of my talk.”
The Arab, who took no notice of them, saluted Masouda, and said to her
in Arabic:
“Is it then for Franks that I have been ordered to bring the two
priceless ones?”
“What is that to you, my Uncle, Son of the Sand?” she asked. “Let them
be led forth that I may know whether they are those for which I sent.”
The man turned and called into the door of the cave.
“Flame, come hither!” As he spoke, there was a sound of hoofs, and
through the low archway leapt the most beautiful horse that ever their
eyes had seen. It was grey in colour, with flowing mane and tail, and
on its forehead was a black star; not over tall, but with a barrel-like
shape of great strength, small-headed, large-eyed; wide-nostriled,
big-boned, but fine beneath the knee, and round-hoofed. Out it sprang
snorting; then seeing its master, the Arab, checked itself and stood
still by him as though it had been turned to stone.
“Come hither, Smoke,” called the Arab again, and another horse appeared
and ranged itself by the first. In size and shape it was the same, but
the colour was coal-black and the star upon its forehead white. Also
the eye was more fiery.
“These are the horses,” said the Arab, Masouda translating. “They are
twins, seven years old and never backed until they were rising six,
cast at a birth by the swiftest mare in Syria, and of a pedigree that
can be counted for a hundred years.”
“Horses indeed!” said Wulf. “Horses indeed! But what is the price of
them?”
Masouda repeated the question in Arabic, whereon the man replied in the
same tongue with a slight shrug of the shoulders.
“Be not foolish. You know this is no question of price, for they are
beyond price. Say what you will.”
“He says,” said Masouda, “that it is a hundred gold pieces for the
pair. Can you pay as much?”
The brethren looked at each other. The sum was large.
“Such horses have saved men’s lives ere now,” added Masouda, “and I do
not think that I can ask him to take less, seeing that, did he but know
it, in Jerusalem they could be sold for thrice as much. But if you
wish, I could lend you money, since doubtless you have jewels or other
articles of value you could give as security—that ring in your breast,
for instance, Peter.”
“We have the gold itself,” answered Wulf, who would have paid to his
last piece for those horses.
“They buy,” said Masouda.
“They buy, but can they ride?” asked the Arab. “These horses are not
for children or pilgrims. Unless they can ride well they shall not have
them—no, not even if you ask it of me.”
Godwin said that he thought so—at least, they would try. Then the Arab,
leaving the horses standing there, went into the stable, and with the
help of two of the inn servants, brought out bridles and saddles unlike
any they had seen. They were but thickly-quilted pads stretching far
back upon the horses’ loins, with strong hide girths strapped with wool
and chased stirrups fashioned like half hoofs. The bits also were only
snaffles without curbs.
When all was ready and the stirrups had been let down to the length
they desired, the Arab motioned to them to mount. As they prepared to
do so, however, he spoke some word, and suddenly those meek, quiet
horses were turned into two devils, which reared up on their hind legs
and threatened them with their teeth and their front hoofs, that were
shod with thin plates of iron. Godwin stood wondering, but Wulf, who
was angry at the trick, got behind the horses, and watching his chance,
put his hands upon the flanks of the stallion named Smoke, and with one
spring leapt into the saddle. Masouda smiled, and even the Arab
muttered “Good,” while Smoke, feeling himself backed, came to the
ground again and became quiet as a sheep. Then the Arab spoke to the
horse Flame, and Godwin was allowed to vault into the saddle also.
“Where shall we go?” he asked.
Masouda said they would show them, and, accompanied by her and the
Arab, they walked the horses until they were quite clear of the town,
to find themselves on a road that had the sea to the left, and to the
right a stretch of flat land, some of it cultivated, above which rose
the steep and stony sides of hills. Here on this road the brethren
trotted and cantered the horses to and fro, till they began to be at
home in their strange saddles who from childhood had ridden barebacked
in the Essex marshes, and to learn what pressure on the bit was needed
to check or turn them. When they came back to where the pair stood,
Masouda said that if they were not afraid the seller wished to show
them that the horses were both strong and swift.
“We fear no ride that he dares to take himself,” answered Wulf angrily,
whereon the Arab smiled grimly and said something in a low voice to
Masouda. Then, placing his hand upon Smoke’s flank, he leapt up behind
Wulf, the horse never stirring.
“Say, Peter, are you minded to take a companion for this ride?” asked
Masouda; and as she spoke a strange look came into her eyes, a wild
look that was new to the brethren.
“Surely,” answered Godwin, “but where is the companion?”
Her reply was to do as the Arab had done, and seating herself
straddle-legged behind Godwin, to clasp him around the middle.
“Truly you look a pretty pilgrim now, brother,” said Wulf, laughing
aloud, while even the grave Arab smiled and Godwin muttered between his
teeth the old proverb “Woman on croup, devil on bow.” But aloud he
said, “I am indeed honoured; yet, friend Masouda, if harm should come
of this, do not blame me.”
“No harm will come—to you, friend Peter; and I have been so long cooped
in an inn that I, who am desert-born, wish for a gallop on the
mountains with a good horse beneath me and a brave knight in front.
Listen, you brethren; you say you do not fear; then leave your bridles
loose, and where’er we go and whate’er we meet seek not to check or
turn the horses Flame and Smoke. Now, Son of the Sand, we will test
these nags of which you sing so loud a song. Away, and let the ride be
fast and far!”
“On your head be it then, daughter,” answered the old Arab. “Pray Allah
that these Franks can sit a horse!”
Then his sombre eyes seemed to take fire, and gripping the encircling
saddle girth, he uttered some word of command, at which the stallions
threw up their heads and began to move at a long, swinging gallop
towards the mountains a mile away. At first they went over cultivated
land off which the crops had been already cut, taking two or three
ditches and a low wall in their stride so smoothly that the brethren
felt as though they were seated upon swallows. Then came a space of
sandy sward, half a mile or more, where their pace quickened, after
which they began to breast the long slope of a hill, picking their way
amongst its stones like cats.
Ever steeper it grew, till in places it was so sheer that Godwin must
clutch the mane of Flame, and Masouda must cling close to Godwin’s
middle to save themselves from slipping off behind. Yet,
notwithstanding the double weights they bore, those gallant steeds
never seemed to falter or to tire. At one spot they plunged through a
mountain stream. Godwin noted that not fifty yards to their right this
stream fell over a little precipice cutting its way between cliffs
which were full eighteen feet from bank to bank, and thought to himself
that had they struck it lower down, that ride must have ended. Beyond
the stream lay a hundred yards or so of level ground, and above it
still steeper country, up which they pushed their way through bushes,
till at length they came to the top of the mountain and saw the plain
they had left lying two miles or more below them.
“These horses climb hills like goats,” Wulf said; “but one thing is
certain: we must lead them down.”
Now on the top of the mountain was a stretch of land almost flat and
stoneless, over which they cantered forward, gathering speed as the
horses recovered their wind till the pace grew fast. Suddenly the
stallions threw themselves on to their haunches and stopped, as well
they might, for they were on the verge of a chasm, at whose far foot a
river brawled in foam. For a moment they stood; then, at some word from
the Arab, wheeled round, and, bearing to the left, began to gallop back
across the tableland, until they approached the edge of the
mountainside, where the brethren thought that they would stop.
But Masouda cried to the Arab, and the Arab cried to the horses, and
Wulf cried to Godwin in the English tongue, “Show no fear, brother.
Where they go, we can go.”
“Pray God that the girths may hold,” answered Godwin, leaning back
against the breast of Masouda behind him. As he spoke they began to
descend the hill, slowly at first, afterwards faster and yet more fast,
till they rushed downwards like a whirlwind.
How did those horses keep their footing? They never knew, and certainly
none that were bred in England could have done so. Yet never falling,
never stumbling even, on they sped, taking great rocks in their stride,
till at length they reached the level piece of land above the stream,
or rather above the cleft full eighteen feet in width at the foot of
which that stream ran. Godwin saw and turned cold. Were these folk mad
that they would put double-laden horses at such a jump? If they hung
back, if they missed their stride, if they caught hoof or sprang short,
swift death was their portion.
But the old Arab seated behind Wulf only shouted aloud, and Masouda
only tightened her round arms about Godwin’s middle and laughed in his
ear. The horses heard the shout, and seeming to see what was before
them, stretched out their long necks and rushed forward over the flat
ground.
Now they were on the edge of the terrible place, and, like a man in a
dream, Godwin noted the sharp, sheer lips of the cliff, the gulf
between them, and the white foam of the stream a score of yards
beneath. Then he felt the brave horse Flame gather itself together and
next instant fly into the air like a bird. Also—and was this dream
indeed, or even as they sped over that horrible pit did he feel a
woman’s lips pressed upon his cheek? He was not sure. Who could have
been at such a time, with death beneath them? Perchance it was the wind
that kissed him, or a lock of her loose hair which struck across his
face.
Indeed, at the moment he thought of other things than women’s
lips—those of the black and yawning gulf, for instance.
They swooped through the air, the white foam vanished, they were safe.
No; the hind feet of Flame had missed their footing, they fell, they
were lost. A struggle. How tight those arms clung about him. How close
that face was pressed against his own. Lo! it was over. They were
speeding down the hill, and alongside of the grey horse Flame raced the
black horse Smoke. Wulf on its back, with eyes that seemed to be
starting from his head, was shouting, “A D’Arcy! A D’Arcy!” and behind
him, turban gone, and white burnous floating like a pennon on the air,
the grim-visaged Arab, who also shouted.
Swifter and yet swifter. Did ever horses gallop so fast? Swifter and
yet swifter, till the air sang past them and the ground seemed to fly
away beneath. The slope was done. They were on the flat; the flat was
past, they were in the fields; the fields were left behind; and,
behold! side by side, with hanging heads and panting flanks, the horses
Smoke and Flame stood still upon the road, their sweating hides dyed
red in the light of the sinking sun.
The grip loosened from about Godwin’s middle. It had been close; on
Masouda’s round and naked arms were the prints of the steel shirt
beneath his tunic, for she slipped to the ground and stood looking at
them. Then she smiled one of her slow, thrilling smiles, gasped and
said: “You ride well, pilgrim Peter, and pilgrim John rides well also,
and these are good horses; and, oh! that ride was worth the riding,
even though death had been its end. Son of the Sand, my Uncle, what say
you?”
“That I grow old for such gallops—two on one horse, with nothing to
win.”
“Nothing to win?” said Masouda. “I am not so sure!” and she looked at
Godwin. “Well, you have sold your horses to pilgrims who can ride, and
they have proved them, and I have had a change from my cooking in the
inn, to which I must now get me back again.”
Wulf wiped the sweat from his brow, shook his head, and muttered:
“I always heard the East was full of madmen and devils; now I know that
it is true.”
But Godwin said nothing.
They led the horses back to the inn, where the brethren groomed them
down under the direction of the Arab, that the gallant beasts might get
used to them, which, after carrying them upon that fearful ride, they
did readily enough. Then they fed them with chopped barley, ear and
straw together, and gave them water to drink that had stood in the sun
all day to warm, in which the Arab mixed flour and some white wine.
Next morning at the dawn they rose to see how Flame and Smoke fared
after that journey. Entering the stable, they heard the sound of a man
weeping, and hidden in the shadow, saw by the low light of the morning
that it was the old Arab, who stood with his back to them, an arm
around the neck of each horse, which he kissed from time to time.
Moreover, he talked aloud in his own tongue to them, calling them his
children, and saying that rather would he sell his wife and his sister
to the Franks.
“But,” he added, “she has spoken—why, I know not—and I must obey. Well,
at least they are gallant men and worthy of such steeds. Half I hoped
that you and the three of us and my niece Masouda, the woman with the
secret face and eyes that have looked on fear, might perish in the
cleft of the stream; but it was not willed of Allah. So farewell,
Flame, and farewell, Smoke, children of the desert, who are swifter
than arrows, for never more shall I ride you in battle. Well, at least
I have others of your matchless blood.”
Then Godwin touched Wulf on the shoulder, and they crept away from the
stable without the Arab knowing that they had been there, for it seemed
shameful to pry upon his grief. When they reached their room again
Godwin asked Wulf:
“Why does this man sell us those noble steeds?”
“Because his niece Masouda has bid him so to do,” he answered.
“And why has she bidden him?”
“Ah!” replied Wulf. “He called her ‘the woman with the secret face and
eyes that have looked on fear,’ didn’t he? Well, for reasons that have
to do with his family perhaps, or with her secrets, or us, with whom
she plays some game of which we know neither the beginning nor the end.
But, Brother Godwin, you are wiser than I. Why do you ask me these
riddles? For my part, I do not wish to trouble my head about them. All
I know is that the game is a brave one, and I mean to go through with
it, especially as I believe that this playing will lead us to
Rosamund.”
“May it lead us nowhere worse,” answered Godwin with something like a
groan, for he remembered that dream of his which he dreamed in mid-air
between the edges of black rock with the bubbling foam beneath.
But to Wulf he said nothing of this dream.
When the sun was fully up they prepared to go out again, taking with
them the gold to pay the Arab; but on opening the door of their room
they met Masouda, apparently about to knock upon it.
“Whither go you, friends Peter and John, and so early?” she asked,
looking at them with a smile upon her beautiful face that was so
thrilling and seemed to hide so much mystery.
Godwin thought to himself that it was like another smile, that on the
face of the woman-headed, stone sphinx which they had seen set up in
the market place of Beirut.
“To visit our horses and pay your uncle, the Arab, his money,” answered
Wulf.
“Indeed! I thought I saw you do the first an hour ago, and as for the
second, it is useless; Son of the Sand has gone.”
“Gone! With the horses?”
“Nay, he has left them behind.”
“Did you pay him, then, lady?” asked Godwin.
It was easy to see that Masouda was pleased at this courteous word, for
her voice, which in general seemed a little hard, softened as she
answered, for the first time giving him his own title.
“Why do you call me ‘lady,’ Sir Godwin D’Arcy, who am but an
inn-keeper, for whom sometimes men find hard names? Well, perhaps I was
a lady once before I became an inn-keeper; but now I am—the widow
Masouda, as you are the pilgrim Peter. Still, I thank you for this—bad
guess of yours.” Then stepping back a foot or two towards the door,
which she had closed behind her, she made him a curtsey so full of
dignity and grace that any who saw it must be sure that, wherever she
might dwell, Masouda was not bred in inns.
Godwin returned the bow, doffing his cap. Their eyes met and in hers he
learned that he had no treachery to fear from this woman, whatever else
he might have to fear. Indeed, from that moment, however black and
doubtful seemed the road, he would have trusted his life to her; for
this was the message written there, a message which she meant that he
should read. Yet at his heart he felt terribly afraid.
Wulf, who saw something of all this and guessed more, also was afraid.
He wondered what Rosamund would have thought of it, if she had seen
that strange and turbulent look in the eyes of this woman who had been
a lady and was an inn-keeper; of one whom men called Spy, and daughter
of Satan, and child of Al-je-bal. To his fancy that look was like a
flash of lightning upon a dark night, which for a second illumines some
magical, unguessed landscape, after which comes the night again,
blacker than before.
Now the widow Masouda was saying in her usual somewhat hard voice:
“No; I did not pay him. At the last he would take no money; but, having
passed it, neither would he break his word to knights who ride so well
and boldly. So I made a bargain with him on behalf of both of you,
which I expect that you will keep, since my good faith is pledged, and
this Arab is a chief and my kinsman. It is this, that if you and these
horses should live, and the time comes when you have no more need of
them, you will cause it to be cried in the market-place of whatever
town is nearest to you, by the voice of the public crier, that for six
days they stand to be returned to him who lent them. Then if he comes
not they can be sold, which must not be sold or given away to any one
without this proclamation. Do you consent?”
“Aye,” answered both of them, but Wulf added: “Only we should like to
know why the Arab, Son-of-the-Sand, who is your kinsman, trusts his
glorious horses to us in this fashion.”
“Your breakfast is served, my guests,” answered Masouda in tones that
rang like the clash of metal, so steely were they. Whereon Wulf shook
his head and followed her into the eating-room, which was now empty
again as it had been on the afternoon of their arrival.
Most of that day they spent with their horses. In the evening, this
time unaccompanied by Masouda, they rode out for a little way, though
rather doubtfully, since they were not sure that these beasts which
seemed to be almost human would not take the bits between their teeth
and rush with them back to the desert whence they came. But although
from time to time they looked about them for their master, the Arab,
whinnying as they looked, this they did not do, or show vice of any
kind; indeed, two Iadies’ palfreys could not have been more quiet. So
the brethren brought them home again, groomed, fed and fondled them,
while they pricked their ears, sniffing them all over, as though they
knew that these were their new lords and wished to make friends of
them.
The morrow was a Sunday, and, attended by Masouda’s slave, without whom
she would not suffer them to walk in the town, the brethren went to
mass in the big church which once had been a mosque, wearing pilgrim’s
robes over their mail.
“Do you not accompany us, who are of the faith?” asked Wulf.
“Nay,” answered Masouda, “I am in no mood to make confession. This day
I count my beads at home.”
So they went alone, and mingling with a crowd of humble persons at the
back of the church, which was large and dim, watched the knights and
priests of various nations struggling for precedence of place beneath
the dome. Also they heard the bishop of the town preach a sermon from
which they learnt much. He spoke at length of the great coming war with
Saladin, whom he named Anti-Christ. Moreover, he prayed them all to
compose their differences and prepare for that awful struggle, lest in
the end the Cross of their Master should be trampled under foot of the
Saracen, His soldiers slain, His fanes desecrated, and His people
slaughtered or driven into the sea—words of warning that were received
in heavy silence.
“Four full days have gone by. Let us ask our hostess if she has any
news for us,” said Wulf as they walked back to the inn.
“Ay, we will ask her,” answered Godwin.
As it chanced, there was no need, for when they entered their chamber
they found Masouda standing in the centre of it, apparently lost in
thought.
“I have come to speak with you,” she said, looking up. “Do you still
wish to visit the Sheik Al-je-bal?”
They answered “Yes.”
“Good. I have leave for you to go; but I counsel you not to go, since
it is dangerous. Let us be open with one another. I know your object. I
knew it an hour before ever you set foot upon this shore, and that is
why you were brought to my house. You would seek the help of the lord
Sinan against Salah-ed-din, from whom you hope to rescue a certain
great lady of his blood who is your kinswoman and whom both of
you—desire in marriage. You see, I have learned that also. Well, this
land is full of spies, who travel to and from Europe and make report of
all things to those who pay them enough. For instance—I can say it, as
you will not see him again—the trader Thomas, with whom you stayed in
this house, is such a spy. To him your story has been passed on by
other spies in England, and he passed it on to me.”
“Are then you a spy also, as the porter called you?” asked Wulf
outright.
“I am what I am,” she answered coldly. “Perhaps I also have sworn oaths
and serve as you serve. Who my master is or why I do so is naught to
you. But I like you well, and we have ridden together— a wild ride.
Therefore I warn you, though perhaps I should not say so much, that the
lord Al-je-bal is one who takes payment for what he gives, and that
this business may cost you your lives.”
“You warned us against Saladin also,” said Godwin, “so what is left to
us if we may dare a visit to neither?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “To take service under one of the great
Frankish lords and wait a chance that will never come. Or, better
still, to sew some cockle shells into your hats, go home as holy men
who have made the pilgrimage, marry the richest wives that you can
find, and forget Masouda the widow, and Al-je-bal and Salah-ed-din and
the lady about whom he has dreamed a dream. Only then,” she added in a
changed voice, “remember, you must leave the horses Flame and Smoke
behind you.”
“We wish to ride those horses,” said Wulf lightly, and Godwin turned on
her with anger in his eyes.
“You seem to know our story,” he said, “and the mission to which we are
sworn. What sort of knights do you think us, then, that you offer us
counsel which is fitter for those spies from whom you learn your
tidings? You talk of our lives. Well, we hold our lives in trust, and
when they are asked of us we will yield them up, having done all that
we may do.”
“Well spoken,” answered Masouda. “Ill should I have thought of you had
you said otherwise. But why would you go to Al-je-bal?”
“Because our uncle at his death bade us so to do without fail, and
having no other counsel we will take that of his spirit, let come what
may.”
“Well spoken again! Then to Al-je-bal you shall go, and let come what
may—to all three of us!”
“To all three of us?” said Wulf. “What, then, is your part in this
matter?”
“I do not know, but perhaps more than you think. At least, I must be
your guide.”
“Do you mean to betray us?” asked Wulf bluntly.
She drew herself up and looked him in the eyes till he grew red, then
said:
“Ask your brother if he thinks that I mean to betray you. No; I mean to
save you, if I can, and it comes into my mind that before all is done
you will need saving, who speak so roughly to those who would befriend
you. Nay, answer not; it is not strange that you should doubt. Pilgrims
to the fearful shrine of Al-je-bal, if it pleases you, we will ride at
nightfall. Do not trouble about food and such matters. I will make
preparation, but we go alone and secretly. Take only your arms and what
garments you may need; the rest I will store, and for it give you my
receipt. Now I go to make things ready. See, I pray of you, that the
horses Flame and Smoke are saddled by sunset.”
At sundown, accordingly, the brethren stood waiting in their room. They
were fully armed beneath their rough pilgrims’ robes, even to the
bucklers which had been hidden in their baggage. Also the saddle-bags
of carpet which Masouda had given them were packed with such things as
they must take, the rest having been handed over to her keeping.
Presently the door opened, and a young man stood before them clothed in
the rough camel-hair garment, or burnous, which is common in the East.
“What do you want?” asked Godwin.
“I want you, brothers Peter and John,” was the reply, and they saw that
the slim young man was Masouda. “What! you English innocents, do you
not know a woman through a camel-hair cloak?” she added as she led the
way to the stable. “Well, so much the better, for it shows that my
disguise is good. Henceforth be pleased to forget the widow Masouda
and, until we reach the land of Al-je-bal, to remember that I am your
servant, a halfbreed from Jaffa named David, of no religion—or of all.”
In the stable the horses stood saddled, and near to them another—a good
Arab—and two laden Cyprian mules, but no attendant was to be seen. They
brought them out and mounted, Masouda riding like a man and leading the
mules, of which the head of one was tied to the tail of the other. Five
minutes later they were clear of Beirut, and through the solemn
twilight hush, followed the road whereon they had tried the horses,
towards the Dog River, three leagues away, which Masouda said they
would reach by moonrise.
Soon it grew very dark, and she rode alongside of them to show them the
path, but they did not talk much. Wulf asked her who would take care of
the inn while she was absent, to which she answered sharply that the
inn would take care of itself, and no more. Picking their way along the
stony road at a slow amble, they crossed the bed of two streams then
almost dry, till at length they heard running water sounding above that
of the slow wash of the sea to their left, and Masouda bade them halt.
So they waited, until presently the moon rose in a clear sky, revealing
a wide river in front, the pale ocean a hundred feet beneath them to
the left, and to the right great mountains, along the face of which
their path was cut. So bright was it that Godwin could see strange
shapes carven on the sheer face of the rock, and beneath them writing
which he could not read.
“What are these?” he asked Masouda.
“The tablets of kings,” she answered, “whose names are written in your
holy book, who ruled Syria and Egypt thousands of years ago. They were
great in their day when they took this land, greater even than
Salah-ed-din, and now these seals which they set upon this rock are all
that is left of them.”
Godwin and Wulf stared at the weather-worn sculptures, and in the
silence of that moonlit place there arose in their minds a vision of
the mighty armies of different tongues and peoples who had stood in
their pride on this road and looked upon yonder river and the great
stone wolf that guarded it, which wolf, so said the legend, howled at
the approach of foes. But now he howled no more, for he lay headless
beneath the waters, and there he lies to this day. Well, they were
dead, everyone of them, and even their deeds were forgotten; and oh!
how small the thought of it made them feel, these two young men bent
upon a desperate quest in a strange and dangerous land. Masouda read
what was passing in their hearts, and as they came to the brink of the
river, pointed to the bubbles that chased each other towards the sea,
bursting and forming again before their eyes.
“Such are we,” she said briefly; “but the ocean is always yonder, and
the river is always here, and of fresh bubbles there will always be a
plenty. So dance on life’s water while you may, in the sunlight, in the
moonlight, beneath the storm, beneath the stars, for ocean calls and
bubbles burst. Now follow me, for I know the ford, and at this season
the stream is not deep. Pilgrim Peter, ride you at my side in case I
should be washed from the saddle; and pilgrim John, come you behind,
and if they hang back, prick the mules with your sword point.”
Thus, then, they entered the river, which many might have feared to do
at night, and, although once or twice the water rose to their saddles
and the mules were stubborn in the swift stream, in the end gained the
further bank in safety. Thence they pursued their path through
mountains till at length the sun rose and they found themselves in a
lonely land where no one was to be seen. Here they halted in a grove of
oaks, off-saddled their animals, tethered and fed them with barley
which they had brought upon a mule, and ate of the food that Masouda
had provided. Then, having secured the beasts, they lay down to sleep,
all three of them, since Masouda said that here there was nothing to
fear; and being weary, slept on till the heat of noon was past, when
once more they fed the horses and mules, and having dined themselves,
set forward upon their way.
Now their road—if road it could be called, for they could see none—ran
ever upwards through rough, mountainous country, where seemed to dwell
neither man nor beast. At sunset they halted again, and at moonrise
went forward till the night turned towards morning, when they came to a
place where was a little cave.
Before they reached this spot of a sudden the silence of those lonely
hills was broken by a sound of roaring, not very near to them, but so
loud and so long that it echoed and reechoed from the cliff. At it the
horses Flame and Smoke pricked their ears and trembled, while the mules
strove to break away and run back.
“What is that?” asked Wulf, who had never heard its like.
“Lions,” answered Masouda. “We draw near the country where there are
many of them, and therefore shall do well to halt presently, since it
is best to pass through that land in daylight.”
So when they came to the cave, having heard no more of the lion, or
lions, they unsaddled there, purposing to put the horses into it, where
they would be safe from the attack of any such ravening beast. But when
they tried to do this, Smoke and Flame spread out their nostrils, and
setting their feet firm before them, refused to enter the place, about
which there was an evil smell.
“Perhaps jackals have been here,” said Masouda. “Let us tether them all
in the open.”
This then they did, building a fire in front of them with dry wood that
lay about in plenty, for here grew sombre cedar trees. The brethren sat
by this fire; but, the night being hot, Masouda laid herself down about
fifteen paces away under a cedar tree, which grew almost in front of
the mouth of the cave, and slept, being tired with long riding. Wulf
slept also, since Godwin had agreed to keep watch for the first part of
the night.
For an hour or more he sat close by the horses, and noted that they fed
uneasily and would not lie down. Soon, however, he was lost in his own
thoughts, and, as he heard no more of the lions, fell to wondering over
the strangeness of their journey and of what the end of it might be. He
wondered also about Masouda, who she was, how she came to know so much,
why she befriended them if she really was a friend, and other
things—for instance, of that leap over the sunken stream; and
whether—no, surely he had been mistaken, her eyes had never looked at
him like that. Why, he was sleeping at his post, and the eyes in the
darkness yonder were not those of a woman. Women’s eyes were not green
and gold; they did not grow large, then lessen and vanish away.
Godwin sprang to his feet. As he thought, they were no eyes. He had
dreamed, that was all. So he took cedar boughs and threw them on to the
fire, where soon they flared gloriously, which done he sat himself down
again close to Wulf, who was lost in heavy slumber.
The night was very still and the silence so deep that it pressed upon
him like a weight. He could bear it no longer, and rising, began to
walk up and down in front of the cave, drawing his sword and holding it
in his hand as sentries do. Masouda lay upon the ground, with her head
pillowed on a saddle-bag, and the moonlight fell through the cedar
boughs upon her face. Godwin stopped to look at it, and wondered that
he had never noted before how beautiful she was. Perhaps it was but the
soft and silvery light which clothed those delicate features with so
much mystery and charm. She might be dead, not sleeping; but even as he
thought this, life came into her face, colour stole up beneath the
pale, olive-hued skin, the red lips opened, seeming to mutter some
words, and she stretched out her rounded arms as though to clasp a
vision of her dream.
Godwin turned aside; it seemed not right to watch her thus, although in
truth he had only come to know that she was safe. He went back to the
fire, and lifting a cedar bough, which blazed like a torch in his left
hand, was about to lay it down again on the centre of the flame, when
suddenly he heard the sharp and terrible cry of a woman in an agony of
pain or fear, and at the same moment the horses and mules began to
plunge and snort. In an instant, the blazing bough still in his hand,
he was back by the cave, and lo! there before him, the form of Masouda,
hanging from its jaws, stood a great yellow beast, which, although he
had never seen its like, he knew must be a lioness. It was heading for
the cave, then catching sight of him, turned and bounded away in the
direction of the fire, purposing to reenter the wood beyond.
But the woman in its mouth cumbered it, and running swiftly, Godwin
came face to face with the brute just opposite the fire. He hurled the
burning bough at it, whereon it dropped Masouda, and rearing itself
straight upon its hind legs, stretched out its claws, and seemed about
to fall on him. For this Godwin did not wait. He was afraid, indeed,
who had never before fought lions, but he knew that he must do or die.
Therefore he charged straight at it, and with all the strength of his
strong arm drove his long sword into the yellow breast, till it seemed
to him that the steel vanished and he could see nothing but the hilt.
Then a shock, a sound of furious snarling, and down he went to earth
beneath a soft and heavy weight, and there his senses left him.
When they came back again something soft was still upon his face; but
this proved to be only the hand of Masouda, who bathed his brow with a
cloth dipped in water, while Wulf chafed his hands. Godwin sat up, and
in the light of the new risen sun, saw a dead lioness lying before him,
its breast still transfixed with his own sword.
“So I saved you,” he said faintly.
“Yes, you saved me,” answered Masouda, and kneeling down she kissed his
feet; then rising again, with her long, soft hair wiped away the blood
that was running from a wound in his arm.