HOW RICHARD SAW THE SUN RISE
How the Holy City was sacked by the men of the West; how the infidels
paid for unbelief and blasphemy with their own blood; how the blood in
the porch of the mosque of Omar plashed up to the bridles of the
horses,--these things this book will not tell. For its story is of the
deeds of men--not of demons, as their foes cried--nor of avenging
angels, as their own hearts boasted. Neither is there need to tell how
Zeyneb's life went out under a Frankish sword, nor how Herbert and
Theroulde found Mary at the house by the Gate of Herod. It was theirs
to save her from death or worse, at the hands of the raging victors,
who deemed all in the city Moslem, that night of rapine and sin.
Through Saint Stephen's gate they brought her forth, while in Sion,
the upper city, the last Egyptians yet stood at bay, and Tancred and
Raymond were leading to the final slaughter. Mary said not a word,
while the St. Julieners led her through the sack and ruin, and through
a thousand scenes at which her pure heart sickened. But when they had
passed the wrecked portal, and the hill of Olivet lay before them,
clothed in the gold and purple of the evening light, she said softly
to Herbert: "And is my dear Lord Richard well?" For though they had
said as much at first, yet their looks were so grave she was ill at
ease. Then Herbert answered, "Blessed be St. Michael, sweet lady, he
is well, though death plucked at him a hundred times." Then Mary
asked--half guessing the reply--"And know you anything of his friend,
the Spaniard Musa?" But the veteran glanced at Theroulde, and the
_jongleur_ answered: "Dearest mistress, he lies sorely wounded in our
baron's tent--grief to tell, though he is Moslem!" Then the Greek
bowed her head, and with no more speech they led her to the camp. At
the tent door Richard came to meet her, treading softly, and neither
spoke when he clasped her to his breast. He led her within where Musa
was lying upon a pallet of mantles and saddle-cloths. Mary knelt
beside him, touched him. He did not speak or move, though still alive.
"He will die?" she whispered, raising her eyes.
"He will die," answered her husband, very softly. "His armor is not
pierced, but all his shoulder has been beaten down. Not all the
physicians of his Cordova may heal." Then he took Mary by the hand,
and they sat beside the bed. In whispers he told of all that had
befallen that day, and learned from her how it befell that Musa wore
the armor of Iftikhar. And Mary bowed her head once more, saying it
was her own blind folly that sent Musa to his fate. But Richard
stroked her tenderly, though his own heart was over full; then made
her lie down, promising to waken her if the Spaniard came to himself.
So a little past midnight Richard touched her, and she saw that the
tent was lighted by lamps brought from the city, and there were silken
cushions under Musa's head. The Andalusian was speaking.
"The Star of the Greeks? Is she here?"
"I am here, Musa, dear brother of my husband!" said the lady, at his
side. "Speak, and say you will master death as you mastered Iftikhar
Eddauleh; that you will forgive this rash disobedience of mine which
brought you all this woe!"
Musa's face wore one of its old, soft, melancholy smiles.
"Ah! Rose of Byzantium," said he, half whimsically, "do you think I am
so great I can hurl back doom? I grow too proud with the praise.
Forgive you? Forgive what--that you loved Richard Longsword, and
wished to know it was well with him? No more of that. I forgive, if
aught needs forgiving. As for dying, as well to be sped by Trenchefer
as by any blade. It was written by Allah upon the canopy of the stars,
and Allah does all things well."
"Ah, would God I could die in your stead, my brother, my brother,"
began Richard, while those terrible tears out of manliest grief would
come.
"And the Star of the Greeks, what says she?" began Musa, again
smiling. But he checked, when he saw the gust of sorrow sweeping
across Mary's face. Then in a darker tone, he added, "No more of this,
as you love me; no more, as I love you--love you both." His gaze was
not on Richard, but on his wife. And the woman's heart first caught
the strange stress of his voice and the light in his dimming eyes.
"Love _me_?" her words with a start.
Musa half raised his head from the pillows.
"Why shall I not say it now?" came the reply, almost proudly. "Loved
you? I have ever loved you, truly as ever man loved, from the hour I
saw your face, and heard your voice, when we plucked you from the
Berbers." Then to Richard, "Dear brother, feel in my breast." And the
Norman drew forth a soiled and folded bit of scarlet ribbon. "Do you
remember, Star of the Greeks, the day you gave me this--when I held
the lists against Iftikhar at Palermo? It has been at my lips each
night since before I fell asleep. For I have loved you--have loved
you--long." The words came very slowly now, for the flood of life was
ebbing fast. But the Norman broke out:--
"Dear God, and all these years, my brother, you have not breathed
this! I made mockery of your monkish state, and you smiled on, doing
all to bring us two together and to give us joy!"
"Assuredly, can the outlaw kite make a nest for the lark? Had I loved
her as little as Iftikhar loved her, I would have served brute passion
alone; have made my love only of her beauty and her kisses. But I knew
while she knelt to your Christ and I to my Allah, we could never love
soul with soul. Therefore my joy was this, to see her grow more
beautiful as your bride, brother that you are, though not in blood."
"And was it so easy to do all this that I never dreamed it? that I
marvelled to myself, 'Why is Musa so devoted, yet so true to Richard,
my husband?'" asked Mary, with quivering lips. The breath of the
Spaniard was coming still more slowly, but he answered, smiling:
"After I had you utterly in my power--after the parting at Antioch--I
swore a great oath I would never, save when dying, confess I saw you
as other than a sister while Richard lived. It was hard; I was
tempted; often the power of Eblees and his jinns was strong. But I
fought them away with Allah's might. I have mastered, I have kept my
vow. She is yours again, my brother, your own pure wife."
"Holy Mother," cried Mary, in her pain, "had I known this three days
since, how would God have tortured me! God knows, while I never had an
untrue thought touching Richard,"--and she looked fairly upon her
husband,--"yet, Christian or Moslem, had Musa said the word, how would
my breast have been torn!"
"Yes, and no shame," the Norman was interrupting, "for what I marvel
at is this,--how you and Musa could look upon each other's face one
day, and yet keep love for me."
But Musa whispered: "Leave the secret to Allah, Most High. I am near
the ending now. You of the West have conquered. You have indeed wrung
victory from very doom, your vow is cleared. The next Genoese ship
bears you homeward to St. Julien, to the castle and the mountains of
fair Auvergne. You will not forget, under that sweet French sky, the
Spaniard, whose body lies beneath the dust of that Jerusalem he died
to save, though all in vain?"
"Till they chant my death mass--never!" whispered Richard; but Mary
made no reply. "It is a long way from _El Kuds_," Musa's pallid lips
ran on, "to the orange groves and shining vegas, by the Guadalquiver
and the Darro. But the pathway to the throne of Allah can be trodden
while an arrow flies. Do not believe the priests, my brother, nor the
imams of Islam, who say, 'only Christian,' 'only Moslem,' can meet
before the Most High's face. Whether your Christ were Son of the
Eternal or earth-sprung prophet, I know not. If to be true Christian
is to wear the pure heart of Mary de St. Julien, then in truth the son
of Mary the Virgin was the son of the All-Merciful. But this is hid.
We shall meet--you, and you, and I--in some blessed spot where the
word is 'love,' not 'war.'" His breath failed him; Mary took his head
upon her lap and stroked his temples with her soft, white hands.
Richard did not speak. Presently the Spaniard spoke again, a whisper,
as of the far retreating wind:--
"Yes, I have been faithful to my love,--my brother,--my promise."
Mary glanced toward Richard, and he nodded gently. She bent over Musa
and kissed him twice upon the lips. A smile broke upon the Spaniard's
face. There came a faint sigh and a folding of the hands, as if to
rest. Mary raised her head.
"He is not here," she whispered; and Richard answered softly, "Sweet
wife, that was the fairest deed of all your life."
* * * * *
Just as the dawn was glowing, Richard stood before his tent on Olivet,
and at his side Mary de St. Julien, his wife. It was very still,
peaceful as a summer Sabbath of La Haye in far Provence. They clasped
hands as they listened to a distant chant and singing. The priests
were raising the matin hymn from the rock of Sion, where infidel
muezzins had called on the single Allah for so many sinful years. They
saw the east change from crimson to red fire, the redness brighten to
golden flame; then all the ridge of Moab glowed in light, as on that
morning when the host first stood before Jerusalem. The last mists
crept from the hills--thin blue clouds that faded away in the burning
azure. And last of all the sun mounted upward slowly, his glory
trailing far, as though reluctant for his daily race. They saw coming
from the city a company of priests, white-stoled, and bearing in
their midst a bier, Sebastian going to that rest which shall know
waking only at God's last trumpet.
"Let us pray," said Mary, gently, "for the souls of all the brave men
and true who have died. Let us pray for the soul of Musa."
So they knelt, while the chant of the priests drew ever nearer. When
they rose, the disk of fire had leaped above the topmost peak, and was
touching each dome, each battlement, of the Holy City with living
light. They saw the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, the Rock of Calvary.
The slow breeze crept through the scattered olive trees that crowned
the Mount of the Agony. It was silent,--for a moment the priests had
ceased chanting, and the sun went on his upward way, shedding over
Mary's face an aureole as of gold. Richard put his arm about his wife,
and looked deep into her eyes. And in those eyes he saw a strength, a
love, a sweetness, not there that first hour they sped madness through
his frame, when he curbed in Rollo with half-boyish might.
"Mary," said he, softly, in his Norman French, "my own true lady wife,
it is five years since we first looked on each other--long years. But
there are many left, please God. Will you go back to France with me,
that by your aid and prayers I may prove a just lord to the lands of
St. Julien?"
"I will go to the earth's ends with you, dear lord and husband," said
she; and she also spoke in French. Then she pressed him closer. "Ah,
sweet life, the night is sped; the sun fast rises. All the past is
gone--Musa, Sebastian, Iftikhar, Morgiana,--and we--we only--are left
to each other. I will forget I was born a Greek. I will speak your own
sweet French, and be your loving wife; and we shall grow old together,
ever loving one another, and the dear God more. And Musa--" but
Richard had his word:--
"We will bear his name upon our hearts; and if so be I am suffered to
stand before the throne of light, there will my brother be also. For
on the earth there did not tread a soul more loved by God"--he
hesitated--"and the Lord Christ, than he."
Then he kissed Mary once more, holding her head back in his strong
arms, that the brightness might transfigure all her beauty. The
procession of priests was very near, its leader, Raymond of Agiles.
The two knelt once more, that they might receive the good priests'
blessing and proffer new prayers for the sainted dead. And while they
knelt, the company burst forth into singing, until the rock of Olivet
gave back the sound:--
"Laud and honor to the Father!
Laud and honor to the Son!
Laud and honor to the Spirit!
Ever Three and ever One;
Con-substantial, co-eternal,
While unending ages run!"
A FRIEND OF CAESAR
A TALE OF THE FALL OF THE ROMAN REPUBLIC
By WILLIAM STEARNS DAVIS
* * * * *
12mo. Cloth. $1.50
* * * * *
"As a story ... there can be no question of its success ... while
the beautiful love of Cornelia and Drusus lies at the sound sweet
heart of the story, to say so is to give a most meagre idea of
the large sustained interest of the whole.... There are many
incidents so vivid, so brilliant, that they fix themselves in the
memory."--NANCY HUSTON BANKS in _The Bookman_.
"Full of beautiful pictures and noble characters."
--_The Public Ledger_, Phila.
"Mr. Davis has done his work with a seriousness and dignity that
indicate remarkable maturity of mind and of purpose. The plot of
his story is stirring, as a portrayal of the times when Julius
Cæsar was rising into power could hardly fail to make it; but the
characters have not been allowed to degenerate into mere puppets
for carrying on the vigorous action. The author's conception of
well-known historical characters is extremely interesting. It is
no less delightful than surprising to be given a glimpse of the
good side of the many-sided Cleopatra. The greatest praise that
is due to Mr. Davis, however, is for his skilful management of
the historical setting of his book. He is evidently at home in
the times of which he writes. Every detail is characteristic, yet
his story is not forced to yield place to dissertations upon
Roman history and antiquities. He has succeeded in a remarkable
degree in making that ancient world live, and in bringing it into
close, vital relations with our own times."--Smith College
Monthly.
* * * * *
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