GREY MAIDEN

The Story of a Sword through the *~Ag&

ty ARTHUR D.HOWDEN SMITH

THE LIBRARY

OF

THE UNIVERSITY
OF CALIFORNIA

PSYCH. •

Mrs. Harold Bruce

GREY MAIDEN

TH£ STORY OF *A SWORD
THROUGH THe <AGCS

>Llf
cLEY

ARTHUR D. HOWDEN-SMITH

PORTO BELLO GOLD
THE DOOM TRAIL

1 u 1964

The Arab scrambled to his feet and struck again at the Roman

GREY MAIDEN

THC STORY OF <A SWORD THROUGH TH£ *AGES

PSYCH.
LIBRARY

BY

ARTHUR D. HOWDEN SMITH

ILLUSTRATED BY

HENRY PITZ

UNlVc

BERKELEY

LONGMANS, GREEN AND CO.

LONDON • NEW YORK • TORONTO
1929

LONGMANS, GREEN AND CO.

55 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK
221 EAST 20TH STREET, CHICAGO

TREMONT TEMPLE, BOSTON
210 VICTORIA STREET, TORONTO

LONGMANS, GREEN AND CO. LTD.

39 PATERNOSTER ROW, E C 4, LONDON

53 NICOL ROAD, BOMBAY

6 OLD COURT HOUSE STREET, CALCUTTA

167 MOUNT ROAD, MADRAS

SMITH
GREY MAIDEN

COPYRIGHT • 1926 • 1927 ' 19*9
BY ARTHUR D. HOWDEN SMITH

FIRST EDITION

PSYCH.
LIBRARY

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

GIFT

f-DUC.-
rr'CH.
JBRAft

THIS is the story of the sword, Grey Maiden, and of a few
of the mighty deeds wrought with it in the passage of the
centuries. Forged in the dim beginnings of time, when men
first discovered the resiliency of iron tempered with carbon,
and made of the knowledge a magic and a mystery, it saw
the rise of Greece, and the crowning of Alexander's fortunes;
it was witness to the majesty and the decay of Rome; it led
the rush of Islam. It knew the glories and the agonies of
the Old World and the birth-pangs of the New. For gen
erations it lay hidden in tomb or burial mound or hung in
grim quietude upon the walls of armories. Yet often when
men turned to war eager hands reached out for it, and its
shining blade was bright in the van of battle. As some
mediaeval owner scratched in the hard, grey steel:

Grey Maide men hail Mee
Deathe doth Notte fail Mee

274

CONTENTS

Chapter I. The Slave of ^Marathon I

Chapter II. *A Trooper of the Thessalians 24

Chapter III. Hanno's Sword 44

Chapter IV. The Last Legion 91

Chapter V. The Rider from the "Desert 136

Chapter VI. Thord's Wooing 182

Chapter VII. The Qritti Luck 233

Chapter VIII. zA Statement for the Qiieenes Majestie 273

vii

ILLUSTRATIONS

The Arab scrambled to his feet and struck again at the Roman

Frontispiece

A giant officer in brazen mail, upholding stiffly a lean, straight
sword of grey steel 7

He was sitting his horse close by where we were grouped above
the river crossing 29

Hamilcar made the grey sword hiss in air, and strode out in
front of the Carthaginians 87

The strangers rowed into the port very awkwardly and in
silence 93

Aslak appeared, a wild figure, dressed in sheepskins, hairy as
Herjolf's self 215

"Too bad," Old Nicolo deplored. "This needn't have hap
pened for years, lad" 263

The Spaniard drifted straight upon our shore 275

GREY MAIDEN

rne STORY OF *A SWORD

THROUGH

GREY MAIDEN

THE STORY OF A SWORD THROUGH THE AGES

Chapter I

THE SLAVE OF MARATHON

'HITE tentacles of sea mist fluttered out from the
dense bank that overlay the plain, spiralling up
ward through the darkness along the mountain
slopes. A charred glow in the east, beyond the invisible
rim of the ^Egean, was the first indication of the dawn.
Closer at hand, in copse and grove and thicket, fires were
crimson blobs against the green background of the foliage,
and the men who crowded each circle of warmth were dim
spectres, dwarfed and distorted by the tossing shadows and
the twining ribbons of mist. It was very cold, a damp cold
that pierced to the bone.

Glaucus squatted as close to his fire as he could come in
the press of slaves, and gnawed diligently at the handful
of raw onions and hunch of black bread which were the
slaves' ration. The slow grinding of their jaws sounded
through the crackle of the flames and the sullen murmur of
comment.

"By Hercules, this onion is rotten" — "Be content, Zike,
the bread is also sour" — "Yes, yes, any food is good enough
for slaves to fight on" — "Do you see the hoplites eating
the dust from Antigonus' bins !"

Glaucus scowled at the last speaker.

"Go to the War-ruler, and demand us a sheep," he
sneered.

2 CfRC Y

"No, no, it is you Callimachus consults," retorted the
other.

Hoarse laughter applauded thrust and counter-thrust. It
was interrupted by a hail from the lower hillside.

"Ho, Glaucus ! The slave of ^Eschylus ! Say to Glaucus
that Giton summons him."

Glaucus stumbled to his feet, cramming the last crumb
of bread and sliver of onion into his mouth, trampling his
fellows right and left. He was a man of gigantic build,
with a sour, resentful expression, and the slaves made way
for him unprotesting.

"May the Furies tear his liver," he growled. "It seems
I am to have two masters, Giton as well as ^Eschylus. A
poet is no easy task-setter, but a freeman who cannot afford
slaves of his own is worse."

The hail came again.

"Glaucus ! Ho, Glaucus !"

"When the slave eats the master calls," quoted a wit.

Glaucus replied with a curse, and crashed down the slope,
forcing his way between the cedars and pines that rose above
the lower shrubbery. Steel glimmered ahead of him, a broad
belt of cuirasses, and he halted on the flank of a detachment
of hoplites leaning patiently on their spears.

"Ho, Giton !" he called softly.

"Is it you, Glaucus ? Where is ^Eschylus ?"

"How do I know ?" the slave answered sulkily, as the thin
figure of the freeman approached through the mist. "What
madness is he up to now ?"

"No madness," returned Giton, slinging shield to back.
"We are to prepare for the battle."

"We shall all go to our deaths," exclaimed Glaucus.
"Eleven thousand hoplites, and it may be thirteen thousand
of us slingers and javelin-men — and against us more Persians
than there are folk in Athens !"

"If all felt as you do, it might be so," rejoined the free
man; "but the Persians can never stand against the hoplites."

"The hoplites !" echoed Glaucus. "It is all very well for

THC SLAV? OF JttARATHOTSt 3

them, with armor to protect them, but what of men like
me, who must go naked ?"

"I have no armor," said Giton.

"You have a shield and a helmet — and a sword. That
is something. I have my sling and a knife."

The voice of ^Eschylus drawled quietly almost at the
slave's elbow.

"Now, who would have thought you a coward, Glaucus,
with that great body of yours ?"

"I am not a coward," snapped the slave. "But I say it
is nothing for men to go into battle armed as you are, while
we slaves — "

"Can outrun us in retreat," derided his master. "But I
did not come to listen to your woes. We are going down
into the plain, a few of us, to determine if the Persians have
cavalry in their camp and to make sure that the marshes on
our right can not be crossed. Giton, you will see that Glaucus
does not — ah — lose us in the mist."

"Lose you !" rumbled Glaucus as he fell in with the free
man's little detachment of light-armed slaves. "It would
serve you right if I was killed, and you had to buy a Libyan
to replace me. I have a good mind to complain of you to
the Archons. You never had a slave who could work as
hard as I, and instead of appreciating me you must throw my
life away !"

He turned to Giton.

"You are as crazy as any citizen of them all," he went on.
"You were doing well at your carpentering until you came
here to Marathon. I don't see what you expect to make
out of it."

"I would have preferred to stay at my carpentering, but
when the Persians landed what was a man to do ?" countered
Giton.

"Let the citizens fight," retorted Glaucus. "It is they who
profit by wars."

"Are you sure ? If the Persians conquer Athens my car
pentering must suffer."

4 QR£ Y

Glaucus snorted contemptuously.

"Yes, for you are a freeman. I suppose they might make
a slave of you. But it would be no disadvantage to us, who
already are slaves, to change masters."

"Are you sure ?" the freeman challenged again. "Did you
ever know one who had been a Persian slave ?"

Glaucus became thoughtful.

"Yes, that is so," he acknowledged. "That fellow, Zike,
was bought from a Tyrian, and he said he would rather be
a slave in Athens than a freeman in Tyre. But he is always
trying to' say smart things !"

"A Persian slave who grumbled as you do would be
slain." said Giton. "And as for beatings, you would live on
them."

"Humph," grunted Glaucus. "Perhaps, but I still don't
see what advantage you or I obtain by being killed to keep
the Persians out of Athens."

Giton was silent for a while. The eastern sky was one
vast sea of fire from the mountain tops, but the column
down in the plain of Marathon moved in a shadow-world of
mist. The clanking of the hoplites' armor, the shuffling of
feet, a few low-voiced orders, were as distinct as thunder
claps in the quiet dimness.

"What is one man's life ?" asked the freeman suddenly.
"What are many men's lives — compared with the State ?"

The slave regarded him, puzzled.

"Why, a man's life is — is — his life. It's the only one
he can have."

"But how many men must die to make a city great !" per
sisted Giton. "Think, Glaucus ! There is ^Eschylus, ahead
of us. He writes poems that sweep all the people in the
theatre out of themselves. He is a greater man than I. But
he ventures his life without thinking — that the city may be
preserved."

"Yes, and he has a fine cuirass to preserve himself, and a
helm and greaves," grumbled Glaucus, returning to his origi
nal complaint.

<TH£ SLAVe OF

"He is a citizen, many men have lived and died to make
him."

"True, and there were those who came before me did not
sleep in the slaves' quarters, but a slave I am."

"That is the fate the Gods send us. What the Gods
offer, man must accept. Yet it must be pleasing to them
to see men live and die, thinking of others than them
selves."

"If you do not think of yourself, who will ?" demanded
Glaucus.

"True," admitted Giton. "And if the City be not greater
than any man, it is less than any man."

"What care I if it be less than man or greater ?" parried
the slave. "It means nothing to me."

"But does it ?" argued Giton. "Without it, you might
not be sure of food and clothing and a kind master and laws
to make a slave's life easy."

"You may call my life easy," growled Glaucus, "but you
are not a slave. As for what the City does for me, it sends
me out here in a wool tunic, with a bag of stones, a sling and
a knife, and if the Persians — "

A long-drawn, wailing cry came from the mist ahead of
them, and the ranks of the hoplites clanked to a halt. Pres
ently an order was whispered down the column:

"Giton's slaves are wanted up forward. ^Eschylus bids
them hasten."

The score or two of slingers and javelin-men trotted along
the brazen line to where ^Eschylus crouched behind a myrtle-
bush, staring into the mist.

"Ho, is it you, Giton ?" he murmured. "Have you that
big slave of mine ? Then heed me. The Persians have a
heavy outlying force in front of their camp. That cry came
from one of their sentries. It is my wish that your fellows
should steal forward on the right, and take one of those sen
tries as soon as you have tested the morass under the foot
hills. Let Glaucus conduct your prisoner, but be sure to
await taking him until you have tested the morass. Lose no

time, for the sun will soon burn this mist away, and we dare
not tarry in the plain, unsupported."

Giton 's spare, bony figure straightened.

"It shall be done," he promised.

^Eschylus rose, and gripped his hand.

"I would go with you, if I might; but you must be free
to run, unhampered by armored men. It is for the City,
Giton !"

The freeman's answer rang like a muted trumpet-blast.

"For the City !"

Glaucus smothered an exclamation of contempt. Citi
zen and freeman were equally foolish. Why, they spoke of
the City as if stone walls were sacred as the very Gods !

II

THE wailing cries of the Persian sentries sounded faint behind
them as the little band crept through the mist that was be
ginning to turn ruddy overhead where the sun's rays smote
level across the distant sea floor. The course they followed
trended to the right, and soon brought them to the edge of
the morass which ran inland from the shore to the base of
the mountains, a mucky slough, impassable for men even as
unencumbered as themselves. Satisfied of this, Giton ordered
the detachment to swing back into the middle of the plain
to undertake its second task.

The freeman prowled in advance, with Glaucus attending
him. A javelin's cast behind these two shambled the rest
of the slaves, as ardent as a herd of sheep. They crossed the
shallow brook which bisected the valley's floor, and were
creeping forward cautiously, when a vagrant wind-puff tore
a lane in the mist-blanket, and there, in front of them, plainly
visible, appeared the Persian camp, a narrow huddle of
booths and tents, swarming with men and backed by hun
dreds of galleys and transports, some beached and more at
anchor. Six miles it stretched from horn to horn of the
curving bay. Nearer, indeed, a scant bowshot from them,

A giant officer in brazen mail, upholding stiffly a lean, straight
sword of grey steel

8

was the outlying camp, which Datis, the Persian commander,
had formed to guard against a surprise attack on his main
force. One of its sentries stood leaning on his spear, so
close that the watching Greeks could distinguish the pattern
of his conical hat and long, quilted coat.

Glaucus wiggled excitedly.

"I can take him for you, Giton \ I'll knock him on the
head with this stone. See !"

He lifted his sling.

"No, you would slay him," objected the freeman. "It is
a live prisoner ^Eschylus must have. The strategoi would
question him."

"I won't kill him," urged Glaucus. "That hat of his is
padded like his coat. I'll strike him on it, and — "

He broke off, amazed at an extraordinary spectacle dis
closed by another eddy in the mist. The outlying Persian
camp projected past them, parallel with the course of the
brook. The open area in the mist had widened abruptly,
and revealed a considerable body of the long-skirted infantry
arrayed in line, midway of them, facing the Greek position,
a giant officer in brazen mail, upholding stiffly a lean, straight
sword of grey steel. He was not brandishing the blade.
Rather he appeared to be addressing it, and whatever he
said, the soldiers at his back shouted a response.

"He prays to the sword," murmured Glaucus. "Gods,
what a blade ! Look to the sheen of it."

"I am more interested in that sentry you said you could
stun for me," answered the freeman. "Show me your skill,
and — Wait ! Wait ! What will you do ?"

For the slave had risen to the straddled position of the
slinger, and already was whirling his leathern weapon around
his head.

"I am going to slay that Persian. He is a great man, Giton.
Better to bring him down than a poor — "

"Hold," remonstrated the freeman, jumping up in dismay.
"No, no, we can never take that man. He is a strategos, at
least."

rue siAve OF

It was too late. The stone whirred away into the air, and
the huge officer dropped with a crash of mail as it rapped his
helm.

Giton wrung his hands.

"You fool !" he cried. "Now, we shall be discovered.
Quick ! At the sentry. No, wait — he sees us — Oh, go
on, go on! Loose, fool, loose !"

The Persian officer was on his feet again, shaking his head
like an angry bull, grey sword flashing as he peered this way
and that to discover his antagonist. The sentry, too, was
staring up the brook, and shouted a shrill warning at sight
of the two Greeks. But Glaucus, to do him justice, had a
second stone in his sling, and launched it even as he grumbled
at Giton 's unreasonableness.

"You are never satisfied. I was of a mind to have that
sword. It has the look of a stout blade. Not that a sword
means anything to you, who have one. Well, there goes your
sentry. Shall I take him?"

"Who else ?" snapped Giton. "Be swift, and I will cover
you."

For the collapse of the sentry had drawn the attention of
the Persians in the outlying camp to the Greeks who lurked
by the brook, and as the mists swirled together again a con
fused shouting echoed over the plain, and the dull thudding
of sandalled feet.

in

GLAUCUS found his victim without difficulty, ascertained the
man's heart was beating and slung him lightly over one broad
shoulder, then trotted back up the brook until a hail from
Giton summoned him to the left side of the watercourse.

"We shall be lucky to get off," the freeman said unhappily.
"The Persians have been as far as this, but something dis
tracted them. I think they have been fighting the rest of
our party; I heard men calling to one another in Greek."

"Oh, we shall get off," replied Glaucus, "If the Persians

catch us you can carry this fellow I have on my shoulder, and
I will teach them a lesson. Bah, you are fortunate to have
me, Giton. I do not know what you would do elsewise."

"You do not !" observed Giton. "Suffer me to remind
you that you require your wind to carry that sentry to
^Eschylus. I will make good your retreat."

The slave chuckled goodnaturedly.

"That is to be seen,5* he said. "Up to this point it is I
who have pushed the fighting. Ho, Giton, two Persians have
I struck down !"

"It would have been better had you struck down the one
I bade you to," rasped Giton.

One of the vagrant breezes that blew out of the moun
tain heights snatched at the dissolving mists, robbing the
Greeks of all protection. The surviving slaves of the de
tachment were safe under the spears of the clump of hop-
lites, and the horde of Persians who had pursued them turned
with exultant howls and splashed into the brook to head off
the pair with the prisoner, in advance of all the giant officer
of the grey sword.

"Can you run faster ?" panted Giton.

"Easily," boasted Glaucus. "But instead, do you take this
fellow as I suggested, and I will have another try at Grey
Sword over there."

The slave halted in his stride, fumbling for his sling with
one hand while he balanced his captive with the other.

"Hurry," he urged petulantly. "I can't do everything."

But Giton faced him with eyes blazing.

"Slave," the freeman's voice was so cold that Glaucus in
voluntarily shivered, "what I bid you to do, that shall you
do. Put up your sling, and run."

"But I can kill him this time."

"Run or I slay you as you stand !"

There was no uncertainty in Giton Js grey eyes, and Glaucus
ran; but the slave still had breath to spare for grumbling.

"Talking of slaying me, eh ? You couldn't get some one
else to slay me, so you might as well do it yourself. This is

me SLAVC OF

fine treatment for an honest slave ! Yes, yes, we shall see
what the Archons have to say of it."

"If you lose your prisoner, do not try to reach ./Eschylus,"
Giton answered grimly. "You would die as surely at his
hand as at the hand of a Persian."

The freeman glanced back over his shoulder with a wor
ried frown, for the Persians were gaining upon them; the
officer of the grey sword was only a few spear lengths be
hind, his black bush of beard bristling savagely, his face con
vulsed with fury.

Giton measured the distance which was yet to be traversed
to reach the protection of .flischylus's spears, and shook his
head.

"It is too much," he said.

"Eh ?" grunted the slave.

"I must stop and hold back that Persian," explained Giton.
"You can never reach ^schylus before he overtakes us."

"Why does not ^Eschylus come out to aid us ?" snapped
Glaucus.

"His men are too few. Go on, Glaucus. Run like Phei-
dippides."

Glaucus looked back in his turn, and exclaimed in dismay.

"You can never stand up to that fellow ! He is as big as
I am — and mailed, besides."

A faint smile showed in Giton's face.

"That is probably true, but this is one of those times when
the City is greater than a man's life."

He slackened pace, but the slave reached out a knotted arm
and dragged him on.

"What ? What's this ?" growled Glaucus. "You are no
fool, Giton. Hurry on with me. If he catches up, we'll
turn on him together."

"And lose the prisoner." Giton twitched free of the
other's grasp. "On what that fellow has to say depends
whether the strategoi will decide for battle — and it may be
that on their decision rests the fate of Athens."

The slave slackened his pace to match the freeman's.

12

"You'll be killed," he babbled. "That sword — Here,
you take the prisoner."

"I am not strong enough to carry him. It is your part
to run and live today, mine to die. We both fight for the
City. The Gods speed you safe, Glaucus. Run !"

Glaucus bent his head dumbly, and ran. A moment later
he heard the clatter of meeting blades, and Giton's voice,
vibrant now with a triumph beyond victory:

"For the City ! Back, Persian, back !"

The slave peered over his shoulder again. Giton was drip
ping blood, and his shield was split in two, but he hewed
recklessly at the Persian, careless of his own body if he might
only force his enemy to yield ground. Glaucus choked a
sob. A sudden gift of vision oppressed him, and he saw,
so clearly that it hurt him, the carpenter's tiny shop as it
had looked when he visited it with errands from the house
hold of ^Eschylus; the clean smell of the cedar planks, fresh-
hewn and stacked against the wall, mingled in his nostrils
with the odor of the grease on the tools and the resinous per
fume of the sawdust on the floor that was soft to his bare
feet. Somewhere behind the shop he knew there was a wife,
and he had heard a babe's plaint.

A roar from the Persian sped him on. He fled through
the gap the waiting hoplites opened to him, and cast his bur
den at the feet of ^schylus.

"It was not right," he stammered hoarsely. "The Per
sian had a sword — they prayed to it — Giton was not big
enough — I could have saved him."

His master's shrewd, satirical face, lofty with a loftiness
Glaucus had never understood, was grooved with bitter lines.

"A man has but the one death to die," answered ^Eschylus.
"Is it not well that he should be glad of an ending such as
must rouse the applause of the Gods ? One who dies like
Giton is never forgotten."

"All for one prisoner," protested Glaucus.

"Who knows what may come of this prisoner ?" returned
his master. "Perhaps Hellas may be saved. Perhaps a slave's

rne SLAV? OF JMARATHO^ 13

soul may be awakened. And I say again, Glaucus, a man
who dies bravely never dies in vain."

The slave lifted a clenched fist.

"Then the Gods grant I may find that Persian, and slay
him as Giton would not let me."

ALschylus eyed him curiously.

"When it is your task to slay him, I hope the Gods will
show you their favor. Pick up this captive, and complete
the task set you. Close ranks, hoplites. Quick march !"

IV

YESTERDAY Glaucus would have glared sulkily at the haughty
bearing of the group of chiefs crowded about the prisoner
and the interpreter who questioned him; he would have en
vied covertly their graven armor and splendid weapons.
Now he gave them no thought. His mind was occupied with
the shattered heap on the plain that had been Giton, and
the Persian who had hacked the freeman to pieces with his
terrible grey sword. He hungered for the order to battle.
He would show ^Eschylus what a slave could do, unarmed,
unarmored.

Then he heard the sword mentioned, and directed his at
tention to the interpreter's report.

" — they have no doubt of victory, for their principal
leader possesses a magical sword, one forged in the beginning
of time of a metal they call the Grey Strength, which has a
peculiar virtue insuring its bearer against death by another
blade. All mail is like a woollen cloak before its edge."

"If the Gods favor us, our enemies will require more than
a magical sword," commented Miltiades, who had been
chosen to command that day. "What of the morass ?"

"The prisoner confirms the statement of this slave that it
is impassable."

"Did you, yourself, try it, slave ?" interrupted Miltiades.

"Yes," Glaucus answered gruffly. "Seeing I was the heavi-

14 QR€Y

est of those with him, Giton sent me in until I was mired
above the knees."

"Good tidings !" exclaimed Miltiades. "But what of their
horsemen ?"

"The prisoner says the horses have all been sent to Euboea
for pasturage," translated the interpreter.

"What of that, slave ?" interposed Callimachus the Pole-
march or War-ruler, who represented the Archons in the
counsel of the strategoi. "Did you approach sufficiently close
to see into the camp ?"

"There are no horses in the camp," said Glaucus.

"But how can you be sure ?" demanded one of the strategoi
who were of the party opposed to giving battle, a man named
Lysimachus. "They might be concealed."

"When a score of men come out from a tent, that is only
large enough to house a score of men, there are no horses
concealed in it," returned the slave contemptuously.

The strategos flushed.

"Your slave is free-spoken, ^Eschylus," he complained.

"He answered a question that was put to him, and with
sense," spoke up Miltiades. "Thus it appears that we have
not to fear the attack of the Persian horse if we bring on a
battle. Also, that the plain is constricted in width by the
morasses on either side — for I have already determined that
the swamp on the left cannot be crossed. The sacrificial
omens are propitious, and therefore I urge upon you all, as
I have urged before, that we seize this last opportunity to
strike for freedom."

"But if we wait until the full of the moon the Spartans
will come to our aid," objected the strategos who had com
plained of Glaucus.

"And it is equally likely that the Persians may be rein
forced," retorted Miltiades. "They may bring back their
cavalry from Euboea. They may call in other forces. There
are those in Athens who may be persuaded to make use of
factional differences, and surrender the city by treachery."

me siAve OF MARAT HO^ i5

No man answered him, but after an interval the War-ruler
spoke.

"We have a serious decision to make. Let us vote upon
it. Those of the strategoi who favor the advice of Miltiades
stand with him; those who oppose him stand back."

There were ten of the strategoi, one for each of the tribes
into which the Athenians were divided, and they separated
five and five.

"Yours is the casting vote, Callimachus," said Miltiades.

The War-ruler assented gravely.

"It is a great responsibility you lay upon my shoulders,
Athenians. If harm comes of what I say my name shall be
accurst."

"And if you vote wisely, oh, Callimachus," cried Mil
tiades, "you will win for yourself an immortality of fame.
For it rests with you either to enslave Athens or to assure
her freedom. Never, since they were a people, have the
Athenians been in such danger as they are at this moment.
If they bow the knee to the Persians they will have set over
them for masters the outcasts they have expelled from their
midst. But if we fight, and are victorious, as I believe we
can be, Athens has it in her to become the first city of
Greece."

"Not so ! No, no !" cried several of the chiefs opposing
him.

And Lysimachus called to Miltiades direct:

"How can you advise us to fight when we number at the
most eleven thousand hoplites ? As for the light-armed
troops, you are not so foolish as to reckon them. Nearly all
are slaves like this fellow here."

He pointed to Glaucus, who stood with arms folded over
his powerful chest a pace behind ^Eschylus.

"I struck down two Persians out there," growled the slave.

The strategoi regarded him in amazement, and Lysimachus
reached for his sword, then shrugged his shoulders, and said
curtly to vEschylus:

1 6

"After all, he is your slave. Slay him, yourself."

"Why should I ?" inquired ^schylus. "He spoke the
truth."

Even Miltiades looked aghast, and the War-ruler pro
tested:

"The fate of Hellas hangs upon what we do today. Shall
we linger to discuss the boast of a slave ?"

^Eschylus pursed his lips in a whimsical grimace.

"Nevertheless, Callimachus, the Gods have many ways of
making manifest their will. It is possible they speak through
the mouth of a slave."

"You are pleased to talk as a poet rather than a warrior,"
answered the War-ruler coldly. "It is true that the Persians
have no heavy infantry to match the hoplites, as Miltiades
contends, but of light troops they have many more than we,
chosen archers, freemen — But it is a purposeless discus
sion. They can sweep our slingers and javelin-men from
the field."

"But how if we contrived that in doing so they should
cause their own defeat ?" proposed Miltiades. "You smile,
Callimachus ! But I say it can be done. Mass our strength
on the wings, leaving the centre weak — five thousand hop
lites on the right, five thousand on the left, in the centre a
thousand hoplites backed by all the light-armed troops."

"We should be split apart," derided Lysimachus.

"Yes, the centre would break at the first shock," agreed the
War-ruler.

But Miltiades pointed down into the plain, which was
spread out at their feet.

"The mountains bend inward to the centre," he said.
"See ! Below us here the distance to be covered is twice that
to right and left. So the wings would meet the enemy first.
They would be fighting before the centre engaged; the Per
sians would be fleeing from the wings by the time the centre
came up. Is that plain ?"

Strategoi of both factions nodded eagerly. The face of
^Eschylus was lit with high resolve.

TH£ SLAVe OF ^MARATHO^ 17

"The Persians will break the centre, as Callimachus has
said," continued Miltiades. 'They will pursue it, and the
wings can close in upon them in the midst of the plain and
destroy them."

"If they do not turn right and left upon the wings after
defeating the centre," suggested Callimachus.

"That will be for the centre to check," answered Miltiades.
"The centre may be defeated and broken, but it must die to
a man sooner than leave the Persians free to turn upon the
wings. And surely, the Gods have veiled their faces from us
if we can not find enough Athenians, freeborn and slaves,
who will dare all for the City !"

"Here is one slave," growled Glaucus.

"And the slave's master," added ^Eschylus.

Several of the strategoi who supported Miltiades called that
they would fight in the centre, but the War-ruler raised his
hand for attention.

"Who is this slave who is so glib of tongue amongst his
betters ?" he asked fiercely.

"One of two men who have struck for the City today,"
replied ^Eschylus. "If we ask his kind to die for us, and find
them willing, we can do worse than permit them a free
tongue — which is the least dangerous of all liberties."

"It is a good sign," cried Miltiades. "If a slave is fearless,
can we be less so ?"

Callimachus plucked at his beard, uncertain, ponder
ing.

"Tell me, slave," he asked suddenly, "why are you anxious
for battle ?"

Glaucus answered hesitantly, like a boy conning a lesson:

"I — seek — vengeance — and — a sword."

"But why, slave ? Why are you willing to risk death ?"

"Giton showed me," said Glaucus simply. "A man must
be willing to fight for what he has. He owes it — to the
City."

"To the City !" repeated ^Eschylus. "Did I not say the
Gods might speak through a slave ?"

1 8 QK€Y

"I am content," said Callimachus. "My vote is for battle.
Miltiades, bid the trumpets sound."

A CONFUSED clamor rippled from end to end of the Persian
camp as the Greeks burst from the shelter of the trees, and
solid columns of well-drilled Medes filed out to meet the
attack, attended by throngs of bowmen and javelin-men,
representatives of half the nations of hither Asia and Egypt
and Ethiopia, careless of order, confident of victory.

Across the plain the hoplites moved in compact masses of
thousands, bristling with spears, except in the centre where
a bare handful were strung in loose formation to cover the
unarmored freemen and slaves. Because of the longer dis
tance the centre had to cover, as Miltiades had predicted, the
two wings were in action with the enemy before the centre
had established contact; but what Miltiades had not foreseen
was that the remorseless pressure exerted by the wings tended
to force the Persians in upon themselves, so that when the
centre finally came to the shock it was opposed by an im
penetrable array that increased from moment to moment.

Two columns, one of Medes and one of Sacians, converged
upon the tenuous line which was captained by the strategoi
Themistocles and Aristides — Themistocles, who was to be
the victor of Salamis; Aristides, who was to lead the hoplites
twelve years later in the final overthrow of Persia on the
glorious field of Platxa. The air was black with buzzing
arrows almost before the Greek slingers realized that death
was in their midst, and discharged their answering hail of
stones.

Glaucus saw the slingers on each side of him pierced by
the hard-driven arrows of Phrygian bow-men, saw hoplites
collapsing in the ranks with shafts feathered in neck and
armpit, groin and thigh. He whirled his sling as fast as he
could unpouch stones, seldom attempting to aim. But he
had time only for half-a-dozen shots. Then the Medes and

rne SLAVC OF MARATHON 19

Sacians had lapped the flanks of the dwindling line of hop-
lites, and repeated on a small scale the treatment their com
rades to right and left were receiving from the Greek wings.
But the centre refused to be crushed. It gave ground to
gain room for the hoplites' spears — and the attackers were
beaten back.

The battle was still undecided when Giton's slayer ap
peared. Glaucus, panting beside his master, in an interval
of the combat, saw three fresh columns of the long-coated
Persian infantry of the Immortals, tall men, with braided
beards and high, peaked helmets and oblong, wicker shields,
tramping through the ruck to renew the assault. At their
head strode the warrior of the grey sword, his brazen helm
and mail agleam in the afternoon sunlight, his lean blade
flashing above the chased brass of his shield.

As he came on he tossed the sword high in air, and caught
it again, brandishing it as though in invocation, and the men
who followed him responded with a deep-throated roar.

"See," whispered Glaucus. "They pray to it."

ALschylus sighed, and stepped into his position in the dimin
ished ranks of the hoplites.

"Perhaps," answered the poet. "Any man is to be excused
for praying to any Gods this day. Stand to it, Glaucus.
Remember Giton."

But the slave never heard him. Already Glaucus had his
stone in the sling and was whirling it around his head.

"Ah !" he gasped with his effort, and released it; but it
dinted into the brazen warrior's breastplate. The Persian
scarcely felt it.

Grinding his teeth, Glaucus cast again, and struck his
enemy's helm a glancing blow, no such outright rap as had
knocked him sprawling that morning. The Persian shook his
head like a bull that has been bitten by a fly, and strode on.
He was singing now, his voice resounding above the clamor
of the fray. Glaucus sought a third stone, placed it carefully
in the lip of the sling and marked the range.

"Ah!" He let it go, and could have knifed himself to see

20

it shattered on the polished surface of the brass shield.
"The Gods have deserted you, it seems," commented
^Eschylus, dressing the heavy spear that was the hoplite's
chief weapon. "Keep my back, for there are only enough
of us for the one rank."

"Yes, the Gods will have none of my sling," said Glaucus
furiously, and he threw it from him. "Sling, I am done with
you. Henceforth I fight with what weapons I can come by."
"Try for the grey sword," advised ^Eschylus.
"I will," snarled the slave.

The three columns of the Immortals crashed into the
slender line of hoplites, pushed it back and ground it up in a
broken mass of light-armed troops, slaves and freemen, Per
sians and Greeks, inextricably mingled. The centre had
caved in. Slingers and javelinmen broke and fled. The
hoplites were running together in groups of a score or a dozen
and standing back to back, prepared to die if necessary,
determined to hold what was left of their position. Glaucus,
a dead Persian's sword in his hand and a riven hoplite's shield
on his arm, ran forward in the press to meet the giant of the
grey sword, who was battering down all opposition that was
offered him. The lean, straight blade sheared helm and
breastplate, made nothing of tempered bronze and steel.
Whenever it struck it maimed or slew, and its owner talked
to it, sang to it, besought it, and the troops who followed him
thundered their response.

Afterwards a slave who understood Persian translated in
vocation and response for Glaucus:

Drink deep, oh, Grey Handmaid of Death!

Be a steep wall to protect thy wield er.

Lead thy servants to the slaughter,

Feed us who feed thee !

We will not flinch from thee,

We will come after thee,

Handmaid of Death !

The grey sword had just lopped a man's arm as Glaucus
came within reach of its owner, and the slave struck quickly,

rne SLAV? OF ^MARATHO^ 21

thinking to take the Persian by surprise. But with one of
his bull roars, the brazen warrior spun upon his heel, and
caught the blow on ruddied blade. The slave's sword
shivered to atoms, and Glaucus saved himself from the re
turn blow by plunging headforemost over the ground. His
hand clutched at the first weapon available, a hoplite's spear,
and scrambling to his feet again, he ran back at the Persian,
the spear leveled breast high. But the grey sword's master
laughed at this menace, caught the spearpoint on his shield,
and as it glanced, hewed off the head and two hands-breadths
of the shaft.

"No weapon touches me," gibed the Persian in mongrel
Greek. "That is the virtue of this sword — and the name
of it is Death."

He struck again, and as he struck, Glaucus hurled the
battered shield at his face. The Persian checked his sword-
arm in air, raising his own shield to ward the clumsy missile
— and Glaucus leaped like an angry snake, flinging his body
low and hard, wrapping his arms around the brazen greaves,
and tossing his enemy, clanging, to the ground.

A startled bellow from the stricken giant became a snarl
ing mumble of protest, a babble, a whine, a groan. To and
fro they tussled in the dust, but the Greek, half-naked, was
always atop of the Persian, weighted by his mail. Twice
the brazen giant tore his sword-arm free, and slashing wildly
at his nimble foe; each time Glaucus twisted to avoid the
cut. And after the last effort the slave succeeded in pin
ning his enemy's arms with sinewy knees, stabbed his thumbs
into the hairy throat, and with a sharp wrench, broke the
Persian's neck.

Glaucus snatched the grey sword from the stiffening
fingers, and tottered erect.

"So, Giton," he murmured, "rest at peace. Ha, I always
craved a sword. By Hercules, what a blade !"

A tingle ran up the slave's arm from the wire-wrapped
hilt, and that tingle became a fire, a flame, a gust of energy
and emotion.

22

He circled the blade around his head, exhaustion forgotten,
his whole being exalted by the deadly purr of the keen edge,
and he shouted hoarse phrases novel to his slave's tongue:

"Forward, Athenians ! For the City ! For the honor of
your temples ! For your fathers' graves ! Hellas conquers !
For the City ! Forward !"

The weary hoplites took up the cry, the Immortals wavered,
dismayed by the death of their leader, superstitions aroused
by the glint of the grey sword in their faces. The freemen
and slaves, who had thought only of flight, commenced to
retrace their steps, and Themistocles succeeded in reforming
a fragmentary line, which slowly advanced again. On the
wings Callimachus and Miltiades wheeled their victorious
hoplites against the flanks of the inchoate multitude of the
Persian centre. In the snap of a finger the invaders dis
solved into a herd of fugitives, each man intent on gaining
a place in the galleys which were already pushing off from
the beach.

VI

THE strategoi were gathered before the tent of Datis, the
Persian commander, when ^Eschylus fetched Glaucus from
the scene of the last struggle on the shore.

"This is he who made good the centre when the rest of us
had failed," said the poet.

Callimachus offered Glaucus a hand nearly as bloodstained
as his own.

"You have deserved well of the City, slave — "

Glaucus cast the hand of the War-ruler from his, and
-^Eschylus explained quickly:

"No more a slave, Callimachus. I have freed him.
Shall an Athenian hold for slave a man who has saved
Athens ?"

A murmur of approval answered the poet, and he dropped
a friendly palm on the ragged shoulder of the man beside
him.

<rne SLAV? OF ^IARATHO^ 23

"What said I when the sun was overhead, Athenians ?
That the Gods might speak for us through a slave ! And
but for a slave I think we should be dead or disgraced who
gather here, and Athens would be a city in mourning by the
morrow."

"No, no," denied Glaucus in his rude slave's voice that had
acquired a ghostly timbre of warrior's pride. "Give the
credit where it is due. Giton made me — Giton and this
sword."

Miltiades bowed his noble head in the twilight.

"What man shall estimate the sum of his deeds ?" he ex
claimed solemnly. "We chiefs planned and wrought as best
we could. But we must have failed, except that a poor free
man inspired a slave with the greatness of loyalty !"

"Any man may be a slave," said ^Eschylus, "and any
slave may be a king."

"But not every king has a sword like mine," boasted
Glaucus.

Miltiades, the far-travelled, Prince of the Chersonese, bent
over the whorley surface of the long blade, and pointed a
finger to a series of tiny symbols etched in the grey steel.

"Yet has it been a king's sword, Glaucus," he said, "for
there is the Egyptian 'seft' for sword, and some Pharaoh's
emblem."

The worn features of Glaucus were suffused with a dim
light — like the light of the rising sun burning through a
seamist heavy with the night dews.

"Henceforth it shall be an Athenian's sword," he ex
claimed.

And in truth, the Archons honored him with citizenship,
and in after years a statue of him in his brown woollen tunic,
sword in hand, was reared on the very spot where he turned
at bay. But that statue long since became slaked lime in the
wall of a Greek peasant's hut, and Glaucus was forgotten
more completely than ^Eschylus — only the sword of the one
and the plays of the other lived after them.

Chapter II

A TROOPER OF THE THESSALIANS

YOU ARE a stranger, eh ? I thought so ! I always
talk with the strangers who come to Antioch; some of
them are from the countries I helped to conquer in
my day. A long time since — a long, long time ! But I can
still sit a horse with any youngster, and handle a drungos on
the citadel parade or in battle. Messala they call me. I com
mand the garrison for Seleucus. . . . Ho, varlet ! Another
cup for this stranger, and a jar of your Cyprian — a mellow
wine that, as good as we used to get from Tempe's vineyards
before I marched from Macedonia, little thinking — empty-
head that I was ! — that I should never see the sunset fade
on the Troad's peaks again.

Well, well, it is all by and done with. . . . Where did you
say you were from ? Rome ? Humph ! Rome ! Ha, I
remember ! A city in Italy, midway of the peninsula. It
grows in power, men say. No, I never saw it. Alexander
turned east, not west, or I doubt not I should have tried
the height of your walls. . . . I ? Why, yes, I rode with
him from the beginning. The crossing of the Granicus,
Issus, Tyre, Egypt, Arbela and afterward, I was through all.
Up and down the world we marched, and back and across,
and everywhere we conquered. Men said there was magic in
it, and worshipped Alexander as a God, but I know better.

24

OF me THCSSALIANS 25

It was discipline and valor and consummate strategy. But
mostly discipline.

Ha, this wine is good after a hot day in saddle. By your
leave, I'll slip off my armor. What said the poet ? "A cuirass
to an old man's back is like a peasant's heaping sack." Ha,
ha, ha ! There was a time I recked no more of my mail than
that varlet does of his tunic. . . . This sword ? You like it ?
I see you have a soldier's eye, Roman. Yes, it is not as other
swords. There is a saying — and that I am alive to repeat
it may go for proof of it — that he who wields it can not
be slain by any other blade. And there is this further proof:
that he who owned it last was not slain as I have ever seen
a man slain in the four score and seven fights and sieges I
have known, as also, that the man who owned it before him
died of an arrow. Before that I have only legend to go by.
You may see the marks upon the blade. Those at the top are
Egyptian; below it is Greek. He who died of the arrow was
my shieldmate, a true friend, Roman, one in ten thousand.
May the Gods remember him ! Agathocles was his name —
he used to tell us that the sword had been in his family since
Marathon, when an ancestor of his who was a slave, took it
from a Persian and won great renown.

You think it strange that a slave should fight for his city ?
Well, so do I, Roman. But we Greeks ordered it so in the old
days, and if the histories go for anything the slaves fought
better than many freemen. At Marathon they beat the Per
sians, four to one against them. After all, a Greek slave
is a better man than any Persian or — Humph ! Hrrrr-
rrumph ! Yes, as I was saying, it is a strange sword Those
who use it without fear it will protect, but let a coward touch
it ! ... The story ? Yes, there is one, if you can tolerate
an old soldier's rambling tongue; but we shall have to leap
far over the past, back to Arbela, where we Greeks crushed
the Persians once and for all, and made Asia a satrapy for
Macedon. Ha, lad, that was a fight !

I'll pass over all that came first. For two years we had
been tramping about from the shores of the Euxine to the Nile,

26

besieging cities and beating armies. We beat King Darius,
himself, at Issus, but he got away, and Alexander was too
busy consolidating our conquests to pursue the Persians then.
But after we had taken Tyre, Gaza, Pelusium, and Memphis
and made Egypt safe, we turned eastward again, and col
lected an army the like of which no man has ever seen. Forty-
seven thousand Greeks, Roman; forty-seven thousand vet
erans. Gods, what men ! There was the Phalanx, six drungoi,
each of three thousand men, eighteen thousand altogether,
the pick of Macedon, who dug a way with their sarissas
through every enemy that dared to meet them. There were
the shield-bearers, heavy infantry that could stand against
anything short of the Phalanx. There were archers and
javelin- troops and slingers, who were not afraid to face the
Persian elephants. There were light horse used to charging
without thought the Persian cataphracti. And last, there
were us of the cuirassiers, cataphracti who — but of what use
are words ?

Roman, did you ever see two drungoi of armored men on
armored horses, sheathed in mail like metal statues, thunder
ing to the attack ? The Gods, themselves, never witnessed a
more sublime spectacle. A gigantic lance-head forged out of
three thousand men, striking with the impact of a Hercules !
And in truth, we were the lance-head of Alexander's army,
as he, himself, would say: "The Phalanx to thrust with, and
the Cataphracti to hew the way for them." But I am wan
dering from my story.

My shieldmate Agathocles and I were hekatonarchs in the
first regiment of the Thessalian drungos. . . . No, I never
served with the Macedonians. They were the King's Guard,
but for that very reason we of the Thessalians made it a
point of honor to outride and outfight them. It was well
known in the army. Alexander had one of his sayings about
it: "My Macedonians at my back, and the Thessalians to
make the flank good." And it is true that we were always
put to it to resist the mass of the enemy the while the
Macedonians over-rode the line elsewhere. Our replacements

*A TROOP€1( OF TH€ THCSSAL1ANS 27

were twice theirs. . . . Indeed, it was by reason of our con
stant drain of replacements that my story had its origin.

The strategos of the Thessalians was a Pharsalian named
Philip, a good soldier, but a courtier — I say no more of him,
since he was my general. He had a son, Dion, for whom he
secured the appointment of chiliarch of our regiment soon
after Issus, where Tigranes, our first chiliarch, was slain; and
I will not deny that this left a bad taste in the mouths of all
of us squadron commanders. We had thought Agathocles
should have it, for you must know that Dion had served his
father on the staff and never ridden in the charge with the
drungos. But we swallowed twice and kept our mouths shut,
thankful when Philip sent Dion home to Macedonia to re
cruit for the drungos, leaving it to the hekatonarchs to com
mand the regiment by turns.

We went on after Issus, and stood by aiding the infantry
as best we could at the sieges which followed. The next year
found us in Egypt, with more work to do, and Dion still
lingered in Macedon, sending us recruits and stores — horses
we obtained from Asia, where the finest were ours for the
seizing. When we turned back at last, with Egypt a Greek
province, and the word trickled through the ranks, as it will
in any army, that the King was determined to force conclu
sions with Darius, and either break the Persian power or else
wreck his own army in final defeat, we of the Thessalians
were overjoyed, and we hoped, too, that Philip would give
our regiment a new chiliarch in recognition of all that we
had accomplished in his son's absence.

But our hopes were disappointed. At Damascus Dion re
joined us with a draft of recruits, and took over the regi
ment. Did I say that he was as vain as he was cowardly ?
For coward he was. Such are to be found amongst all races,
Roman, although I thank Hercules that we Greeks have fewer
than most. . . . Yes, he was as vain as a Mede, who will
tell you how great his people once were, forgetting that he is
now little better than a slave. His first thought was to mus
ter the regiment for inspection outside Damascus, and try to

28

find fault with the discipline and equipment. But his father,
who was no fool, put a quick stop to that, and smoothed
over the ill-feeling that was aroused by complimenting us
officers on the efficiency we had shown and serving out an
extra wine ration to the men. I made no doubt that he
dropped a word of advice in Dion's ear, too, as that was the
last we heard of inspection. But the fool's vanity was incur
able, and when he was denied the opportunity of exploiting
it by humiliating those who were better men than he and
who had done his work for him, he must needs vent it in
peacock parading and thrusting the regiment into all manner
of additional service, in which he never took part, but for
which he always claimed credit.

It was this cursed vanity of his which brought about my
shieldmate's death. From Damascus we marched north by
Hamath to the Euphrates, which we crossed at Thapsacus
toward the end of summer. There was a small force of Per
sian horse watching the crossing, and they would have re
tired without any pressure in face of such an array as ours;
but Dion must rush to his father and Alexander and offer
to send a squadron of ours to teach the Persians what was in
store for them. Alexander said nothing, and Philip gave the
boy leave — I think, because he was always hoping that Dion,
himself, would lead one of these dashes and quickly win honor
thereby. The result was that Agathocles' squadron was or
dered out to brush back the Persians. And mark you, Roman,
it was foolish to waste armored horsemen on a venture which
could have been performed by light horse. So said many of
the generals afterward, although none of us could find fault
with Alexander for not checking Dion, for we loved the
young King because he would never refuse a man who desired
to attempt some dashing exploit.

I can see him now — he was sitting his horse close by
where we were grouped above the river crossing — watching
Agathocles lead his men down against the Persians. Only a
boy like the rest of us, with a boy's eager, restless manners,
forever twitching at his weapons or rubbing his beardless

He was sitting his horse close by where we were grouped above
the river crossing

3o QRCY

chin, but with a brain that never slept and as keen an eye
for battle strategy as old Parmenio, who was his right hand
and the one man who dared to talk to him like a father.
Fever-hot he was in all he did, fierce in battle, tireless in
carouse, unbounded in imagination. Who but he would have
thought of invading India and dreamed of conquering the
yellow men beyond ? He lived in a day an ordinary man's
life, and to prove that he was no god the Gods smote him
while his boyhood was unblemished. Ifjae had lived ! Give
thanks that he did not, Roman, for your turn would have
come had he been spared us a few years more. And then, in
stead of a score of kingdoms and principalities carved out of
the wreckage of what he won we should have had one land,
all Greek, from the Pillars of Hercules to the east where the
world ends.

Be sure, though, that no such thoughts as these were in
my head as I sat behind Alexander on the Euphrates' bank
and watched Dion in his silvered mail, pompously erect and
trying to achieve the look of the eagle that Alexander as
sumed by nature. . . . You know the eagle, Roman ? He
is your emblem ? That is well for your people. The eagle is
a conqueror; a people who take him for emblem should carry
their arms far, yes, as far as the eagle flies — and wherever I
have travelled, there the eagle has assailed his prey . . . But
Dion was no eagle. Not he ! He looked like a plump par
tridge hoisted into saddle and hung about with a housewife's
pans from the kitchen.

The Persians had already commenced to retire when they
saw Agathocles coming down to the ford, and because they
were brave men and were five times the number of his squad
ron they turned back and attacked him savagely as he rode
up from the water, smiting his ranks with the arrow-hail
of their Scythian archers and flinging other companies in
headlong charges upon the lances of his troopers. But Agath
ocles rode right through them, split his squadron in halves,
and then stormed from two sides upon the wreckage he had
made. The Persians were beaten, and fled, raining arrows be-

ex* TROOPC^ OF THE THCSSALIANS 31

hind them, with Agathocles pelting at their heels, his sword
flickering like a blown flame. "We on the opposite bank set
up the shout of victory, and Alexander waved the light
troops forward to the crossing. And it was that moment,
Roman, that Agathocles fell from his horse. An arrow from
a wounded Scythian on the ground had pierced his cheek
and driven upward into the brain. Gods ! What an ill hour.
He was — But of what use words now ? A man has but one
shieldmate of his youth. Other friends, perhaps. Others to
share his shield. But none like the shieldmate of youth. . . .
I pour this libation to him, Roman. Ha, you do well ! The
Gods will look favorably upon one who honors the dead,
even a barbarian. . .

I was first to reach his side, and it was I who stripped off
his armor and loosened his fingers from the hilt of his sword.
My thought was to make the sword my own. I knew that
would have been his wish. But that fop Dion must ride up as
we were burying Agathocles and cry out in his squeaky voice:

"Where are the hekatonarch's equipments ? They must be
sold according to camp law."

I pointed to the little heap of armor and weapons beside
Agathocles' horse that a trooper held by the bridle.

"But the sword ?" persisted Dion. "Is the sword there ?
I have heard much of that sword. Men say he who carried it
cannot be slain by another blade — and all of us saw that
Agathocles died by the arrow."

"I have taken the sword," I answered briefly. "Mine can
be sold in its place."

"No, no," squeaked Dion. "Camp law is camp law."

At this several of my brother officers spoke up and ex
claimed that Agathocles had been my shieldmate, and that
they were willing for me to have the sword to remember him
by. But the chiliarch shook his head stubbornly.

"Let Messala buy it in, then," he said. "It is camp law that
a dead man's effects be sold at auction."

And off he rode without another look at the man he had
sent to his death.

32

He was chiliarch. There was nothing to do but obey him.
And I had this reassurance in doing so: that I knew no other
man in the regiment, yes, no other in the drungos, would
bid against me for the sword, whatever magical qualities it
possessed. What is camp law to soldiers in face of the love be
twixt shieldmates ?

That night the camp marshal offered Agathocles' equip
ment at auction before the headquarters of the chiliarch.
The horse was bought in for the reserve of the drungos;
the horse-armor went with it. A man in another regiment
bought the body-armor; a dekarch of ours bought the shield
and lance. Last, the sword was offered. There was a dead
silence while the circle of officers looked at me in sign that
none would compete with me, and my sadness began to lift
with this evidence of their affection.

"Ten staters," I called. For I did not wish to set a cheap
price upon what had been my shieldmate's or to take advan
tage of the consideration my brother officers showed me. But
the words were scarce out of my lips when Dion's mincing
voice squeaked from the shadows by his tent.

"Eleven staters, marshal."

Roman, I could have slain the swine where he sat. My
heart boiled with rage.

"Fifteen staters," I shouted.

The marshal looked uncomfortable. He would have liked
to declare the bidding ended, for no sword — as a sword —
was worth fifteen staters. But he dared not, and there was a
grating edge to Dion's squeal as the chiliarch called:

"Sixteen staters."

I had no more money, but men behind me in the circle
thrust upon me whatever was in their pouches, and so I was
able to carry on my bidding to twenty-two staters.

"Twenty-three staters," shrilled Dion.

The marshal looked toward me inquiringly.

"Your bid, Messala ?"

"I have offered my last bid," I growled.

An answering growl echoed from the circle of officers. The

OF TH£ THCSSALIANS 33

marshal hesitated a moment, and Dion stepped out and lifted
the sword from the cloak on which the equipment had been
spread.

"If there is no more bidding the sword is mine," he de
clared with the abrupt insolence we hated.

After all, as I have said, he was chiliarch. What could the
marshal do ?

Dion drew the long grey blade and flashed it in the fire
light. And as I sit here, Roman, it hissed as a man does in
derision — or better still, as a woman does, vibrant with the
contempt that scorches and sears. Not one of us stirred or
breathed, for that note we had never heard before. Not so
had the sword sung when Agathocles wrought with it in
battle ! Then it had whistled and purred. This — this was
unspeakable, horrible — like a chained beast that waits to
strike — or perhaps a snake — yes, perhaps a snake.

Men who were closest to Dion moved away from him, un
easy for the sword's evil voice. But there was no misgiving
in his face, only puzzlement, as he held the blade before him
— thus — lengthwise, and studied the clean sweep of edge
and point.

"Man's voice or woman's voice," he squeaked, "it has a
woman's shape."

And therein he was right, Roman, as I have ever main
tained. Look closely, and you will perceive that it suggests
the gracious slimness and strength of some green maid, most
wildly perfect and thirsty of life. Yes, very thirsty ! . .

"It seems to cry out against you," returned the marshal.
"There is no luck for you in that sword, Dion."

But Dion frowned upon him reprovingly, striving for
the expression with which Alexander received a captive
satrap.

"Not lucky!" he squealed. "You babble. The sword
hisses at the enemies it will guard me against. It serves no
tice that the Gods have given me into its protection. Yes,
yes, it is a good servant, this sword. I have heard Agathocles
tell how it guarded all who possessed it."

34 QR€Y

"Yet Agathocles is dead," I said, the wrath throbbing in
my voice.

"Slain by his own foolishness," he twittered. "Rash one
that he was ! And he should have had his shield up to guard
his cheek below the helmet-rim. So much the Gods do for us
— no more ! "

No more ! Two men caught me by the arms and dragged
me back from the fireside lest I should smite him. And that
would have meant one thing in any army Alexander led —
death ! Right, too. Discipline overrides personal hatred.
Remember that, Roman. Yes, yes, discipline before all. . .

Where was I ? Ah, yes ! They dragged me away from the
fireside, and I lay out under the stars that night and prayed
and cursed by turns until exhaustion drugged me. But I was
up with the trumpets at dawn, and my squadron was first
standing to horse. Sleep is a great chastener, and an hour dulls
bitter memories — dulls where it does not erase. . .

We left the Euphrates behind us, and plunged boldly into
the heart of the Persian dominions, marching east toward the
Tigris. South of us was the rich plain which lies betwixt the
two rivers, full of fat, prosperous cities and all manner of
wealth. Mark, Roman, how our King's craft prevented him
from falling into the trap which would have caught most
invaders. Southward was loot to repay ten campaigns; east
ward was the broad Tigris — and we already had the broad
Euphrates at our backs. Men snarled and grumbled as we
continued eastward. "Why put our necks in the noose ?"
"Why run headlong into space ? " "Why pass two rivers when
we have only to turn right, and find all the plunder we can
handle ?"

Ah, but Alexander thought farther than they ! He knew
that if we had turned southward between the rivers Darius
would have fallen upon our rear and straddled his mighty
army across the plain from river bank to river bank, and we
should have been sealed up there with no chance to exploit
the strategy and discipline which were our only means of
overcoming the myriads of our enemies. He knew, too, that

*A TROOPS OF rue THCSSALIANS 35

booty and plunder did not spell empire, any more than the
victories we had been winning for three years. What he must
have was the defeat and humiliation of Darius, the dispersal
of the Persian armies. It was that he sought — or destruction
for himself.

So we crossed the Tigris as we had the Euphrates, forty-
seven thousand men, with an immense column of transport,
a column that stretched for parasang after parasang, two
days' march from van to rearguard. Four days we marched
south after we passed the Tigris, and then our scouts reported
the enemy in force ahead; and Alexander, himself, rode for
ward with some of his Macedonians, and shattered a consider
able body of Persian horse, who fled away across the low,
rolling hills that clutter this country. There was no sign that
more of the enemy were within striking distance, but from
prisoners we learned that the whole bulk of their army, with
Darius in command, was lying a few parasangs south, await
ing us in a prepared position.

We had been marching steadily for many weeks, and were
become footsore and weary, besides which we had several
thousand sick and wounded men who were unfit for duty;
and Alexander decided to halt where we were for four days
to rest the army and fortify a camp to contain the invalids
and our train of military stores and engines. A drungos of
Thracians was appointed to garrison it, and in the darkness
of the early morning of the fifth day we resumed our ad
vance, planning to attack the Persians at sunrise. But the
Gods decreed otherwise.

We climbed several ridges of hills, maintaining the battle
order at every step, and as we were ascending the last we
heard the trumpeting of the Persian war-elephants and the
clamor of their cymbals, growing louder and louder, then
fainter and fainter as the alarm spread to the distant wings.
When we reached the summit the sun was just rising, and in
the crimson light we could see the hosts of Darius spread
out before us like a forest, a great, thick hedge of men and
horses, war-chariots and elephants. Their shouting as they

3 6 QK€Y

sighted us was like — was like — Roman, did you ever hear
the sea pounding the Euxine's beach ? It was like that.

It was plain now that we had failed to surprise the enemy,
yet we still thought to be sent forward, and were disgruntled
at the command to halt in our tracks. But officers of the
staff soon brought us an explanation of Alexander's caution.
In the growing light we had observed a wide area of fresh-
turned earth in front of the Persian centre, and suspected
that Darius had constructed a system of pitfalls to disorder
our cavalry. And while the rest of us squatted on the grass
and studied the far-off Persian lines, the young King rode
close up to it and determined the strength of its several parts,
as likewise, that what he had believed pitfalls were no more
than a leveling of the ground to improve the speed of the
Persian war-chariots.

All day the two armies faced each other, without exchang
ing a blow. We of the Thessalians simply sat beside our
horses or gathered in groups to talk over the latest bit of
gossip that had come down the line; Dion stood apart by
himself, nursing Agathocles' sword. I watched him whenever
I could, and I knew his coward's soul was shrivelling inside
him. I could tell by the way his throat contracted and ex
panded, and the feverishness with which he clasped and un
clasped the sword's hilt. And once when his father rode up
to inspect us I heard Dion ask if there was to be a night-
attack in a tone that convinced me he hoped to make use of
the darkness to conceal himself out of harm's way. But old
Philip gave him no encouragement. Any one could have told
the fool that it was not Alexander's way to risk the disorder
that fighting in darkness brings.

On the verge of dusk the strategoi drew up the drungoi
in ranks and announced to us that the attack was postponed
to the morrow. In the meantime we were to eat heartily and
sleep in confidence of the result. Later Alexander rode
through the ranks and shouted encouragement to every regi
ment, singling out officers and men he knew. How we cheered
him ! It was the first cheer that had come from us since we

^ TROOP e^ OF rue THCSSALIANS 37

topped the hill, and you should have seen the Persians run
ning this way and that, tightening their formations and pre
paring to meet an immediate attack. It put us in a good
humor, the men forgot the tension of the day and we slept
on our arms as easily as though we had been in winter-
barracks.

Morning brought another story. Gods ! My blood quickens
with the memory, Roman. Remember, we were in open coun
try, with no natural flank defenses, and the enemy were five
times our number. His horse alone were equal to our entire
strength. It was a certainty that he would lap around us,
flank us at the least, probably come at us from the rear as
well as the front. So we marched in a great hollow square,
arranged so that each part could be supported by the other
parts. But our principal strength was massed in the front
line, and mainly in the right wing of that line, which Alex
ander led. Do you see his plan ? It was simple. He could not
beat the Persians all at once with the army he had, but what
he could do was to beat them so badly at one point, holding
them in check elsewhere with inferior numbers, that their
resistance would crumble away.

And it was the old story: Alexander and the Macedonians
were to deliver the whirlwind attack, while we of the Thes-
salians resisted the better part of the Persians to give them
their opportunity. Not that we minded, any of us. No, no !
It was a point of pride with us to do the heavy thrusting.
And we knew that the King knew what we did.

We were on the far left of the front line, and old Par-
menio, who commanded the left wing, rode with us in the
midst of Philip's staff. Our regiment was first in the column,
and Dion led, his cheeks tallowy, his hands moist with sweat.
Next to us was a drungos of light cavalry of the Greek allies.
Then two drungoi of heavy Greek infantry. Then the Pha
lanx in an oblong bristle of pikes. Beyond them the shield-
bearing infantry, two drungoi. And on the right Alexander
and the Macedonian cataphracti. In advance of the right
wing was a swarm of light troops.

38 QKCY

The second line was one drungos of the Phalanx and three
or four bodies of Greek and Macedonian infantry, mostly
light-armed troops. It was linked with the first line at either
extremity by regiments of light-armed infantry and horse;
they were the sides of the square. And it was for the two
drungoi of the cataphracti, we of the Thessalians and the
Macedonians, to make sure that those sides were not burst
in. By Hercules, every face of the square, except only the
right of the front line, was slender enough. Our whole front
was no longer than the Persian centre, and to avoid driving
full into the midst of the Persians Alexander gave the word
as we descended the hillside to incline to the right, with the
result that the Phalanx and the Macedonians were directed
at the juncture of the Persian centre and left wing.

This did not suit King Darius, who had hoped to engage
us with his centre and then fold his two wings around us,
and he launched two attacks to herd us back. First, he loosed
a cloud of Scythian and Bactrian horse to strike our right
flank. Alexander stopped them with the light troops of the
right side of the square. And while this fight was going on,
the Persians sent their scythe-armed chariots at our front.
They came rattling and bumping across the plain in a cloud
of dust, and Dion turned chalk-white as the sunlight was re
flected from the long blades that projected from their sides.
But they never even reached us. Our light troops met them
in the open, and slew horse and driver with arrows and
javelins.

So far, you see, we of the left wing had not lifted a
weapon. We marched along quietly, keeping our alignment
with the front of the square, and watched the cavalry com
bats that swirled in and out of the dust-clouds away over
on the right. But our turn was coming. I saw a gap open
between the Persian left and centre as a huge column of
Susian horse abandoned their position to go to the assistance
of the Scythians and Bactrians who were waging a losing
fight with our light horse on Alexander's right. And quick
as a flash Alexander struck. The Macedonians darted out

*A TROOPS OF me THeSSALIANS 39

from our line like a spear-head of galloping horses and men,
and flung themselves into the gap, shearing deep into the
unguarded flank of the Persian centre. After them charged
the shield-bearing infantry and the Phalanx.

There was a roar of exultation all along our front, but the
Persians answered it; and their right wing and half of their
centre charged us of the left at a run. One moment we had
a clear view of the battlefield from end to end. The next we
were swallowed up in a sea of enemies. They engulfed our
front; they boiled around the left side of the square and
smote the second line in the rear; they even started to wedge
in between our two drungoi of heavy infantry and the Pha
lanx, who were striding forward like a machine, crushing all
the opposition before them. But Simmias, who commanded
the left drungos of the Phalanx saw what the Persians were
up to, and he wheeled his men out of position and dropped
back to make good our right. Thanks to the Gods for that !
But for him, I think, we should have been torn apart in that
first mad rush of half the races of Asia. Wave after wave
of men beat upon our spears, and the clashing of weapons
and armor, the neighing and screaming of horses, the shouts
and the thudding of feet were deafening. The elephants lum
bered at us, waving their trunks and bellowing with rage,
and it seemed as though nothing might stay them from
crushing a bloody path through our ranks. But, Roman,
know this: disciplined troops need never fear those beasts.
A few well-directed arrows, and they turned about despite
their drivers' prodding and wreaked amongst the rearmost
Persians the very havoc their masters had sought to accom
plish against us.

And what of the Thessalians you ask ? Well you may !
For if Simmias and his drungos of the Phalanx made good
the right of our half of the front it was we of the cataphracti
who must resist the greater assault upon the far left. We
were like a shield a warrior interposes between his body and
an enemy's blows — yes, and at times we ceased to be a shield,
and became a weapon, a lance, a sword. Ah, yes, a sword !

4o

And that reminds me of what happened at the beginning,
when the Persians stormed down upon us, and old Parmenio
shouted to Philip to hurl Dion's regiment forward to break
the force of their rush.

My squadron was leading the column, Dion was not two
spear-lengths from me and I heard every word that passed as
Philip trotted up to give the order.

"Honor to you, boy," said the strategos. "Yours shall be
the first charge."

Dion fumbled with the hilt of the sword that he held
naked in his hand, and his voice quavered in reply.

"Only one regiment to — "

"One is enough," Philip cut him short. "Be off ! Time
presses."

I have often wondered whether Philip knew his son was
a coward. Some suspicion he must have had, but I think he
hoped the boy would gradually accustom himself to danger;
many men do.

"Do not go too far," he added. "Swing around and cut
your way back to our rear. The second regiment will fall to
as soon as you have driven home your blow. We must
check the enemy before they reach us, else they will overrun
the foot."

"It is foolish not to strike with the whole drungos," whined
Dion, gathering his bridle shakily. "One regiment ! We
shall be devoured — "

His father gave him a frown.

"I hear you have a new sword," said Philip. "Prove it !"

Dion snarled the order to the trumpeter, and Philip rode
aside as we urged our horses to a gallop. For myself, I admit
I paid little attention to the enemy. My thought was for
Dion, and I made up my mind that he should stand the
shock if I had to hold him in his saddle.

We crashed into the Persian line where Babylonian and
Uxian infantry were formed a hundred men deep. They
yielded to us, and receded; but troops flocked to their aid
and no matter how deeply we penetrated the mass there were

OF TH£ THCSSALIANS 41

always ranks in front of us. Very brave men, these, who
tried to grapple our spears when we pierced them or to leap
up and drag us from our saddles. Sometimes they succeeded.

Through all this turmoil Dion rode without raising his
sword, and presently I understood that he was dazed by fear.
Persians struck at him in passing, their blades scraping on his
armor. But he ignored both friend and enemy, galloping on
like a man in a dream.

I judged now that we had thrust as far as was safe into the
Persian array, and so I called to him.

"Back, chiliarch !"

He did not even hear me, and I ordered the trumpeter to
sound the call. The brazen notes rang clear above the up
roar, but Dion would have continued to ride forward if I
had not seized his bridle-rein. His eyes were glassy with
terror.

I was of two minds what to do. First, of course, my duty
was to extricate the regiment; but I hungered to lesson Dion
as he deserved, and as we turned I peered across the field in
search of an opportunity. The Gods favored me.

The Babylonians and Uxians had fled, and a column of
Persian cavalry rode out to intercept us, led by a very tall
warrior in a high, gold headdress. I bade the trumpeter sound
the charge again, and contrived our course so that Dion should
come face to face with the Persian, dropping my hold on his
bridle-rein a moment before they met.

The Persian hewed at him, and Dion squatted low in the
saddle, ducking his head, as though that would save him. He
was no weakling, that Persian, and sparks flew from his
sword as it clattered on Dion's helm. Yet the stout mail
turned the blade, and Dion involuntarily raised his own
sword. I thought he was going to strike back. But no.
His bemused face stared right and left, stark with the agony
of utter fear. Armed men hemmed him in. He could not

fly-

The Persian struck again. Gods, the marvel of it ! His
blade fell upon Agathocles* sword, wavering over Dion's

42 QK€Y

helm, and the grey steel that my shieldmate had loved bit
through the crest of the helm and deep into the coward's
skull. No hostile blade had smitten him, Roman. The
sword, itself, had turned upon him. The marvel of it !
And some men deny that the Gods deal justly !

I wrenched the sword free as he slipped from his saddle,
and cut the Persian to the lungs with it. An ill-requital for
a good deed. But in battle a man may not choose his course.
Smite your enemies or they will smite you. . . . The rest ?
We broke through the enemy, and regained the rear of the
drungos, where Philip and Parmenio received us.

"Well done, Thessalians !" cried old Parmenio, his beard
standing out from his face as it always did in the excitement
of battle.

Philip's mouth was set in a straight line.

"You will take the chiliarch's place, Messala," he said.

Not a question. Not a comment. Perhaps he knew it
was better to say nothing. I don't know. I have often
wondered. . . .

The battle ? Yes, I was forgetting it. The sword meant
more to me than any battle, just as Dion's death meant
more than all the Persians I slew with the blade that had
come to me in so strange a manner. For I wielded it dili
gently. That first charge was one of many, at first by regi
ments, but as the Persians heaped more men around us we
used the drungos as a whole, hammering away wherever our
infantry were most sorely tried.

By afternoon we decided the battle was lost. An immense
column of Indian horse from the Persian centre had slashed
through the square — not on our side of it, of course — and
ridden back over the hills to the camp and captured that.
We were too busy with our own troubles to observe what
Alexander was doing, so we were as surprised as the Persians
when the cry started in their ranks:

"Darius flees ! Run, brothers, run !"

They commenced to scatter, and we headed our tired horses
into their midst again, lest they should regain self-confidence

OF rne THCSSALIANS 43

— our infantry were worn out, finished — when what should
we see but a brazen streak of armor, and Alexander gal
loped up to meet us with his Macedonians. Lucky fellows !
They had been chasing beaten Persians ever since their first
charge, with the Phalanx at their backs to keep the Persians
beaten. But we were glad to see them, for all that, and we
croaked an answer to their cheers. I remember I waved my
sword around my head — thus! Do you hear it? As if a man
spoke low to a friend. It is always so; I have never heard the
hiss since Dion held it. Many times it has kept my head for me.
Men say I shall die in my bed, but I do not like to think of
that. If the years carry me to feebleness I will divorce the Grey
Maid — so I call it — and give her to some youth of promise —
Eh ? Well, it might be, Roman. Prove your worth, and I'll
take thought of it. Why not ? She has drunk the blood of
every race in the East. Let her try the West. But first prove
your worth. Agathocles* sword is not for any chance passer
by. Remember Dion, Roman. If there is luck in the blade
there is peril, too.

Chapter 111

HANNO'S SWORD

HRILL through the clamor of embarkation pierced
the squealing of the elephants. Hamilcar, picking his
way over the trireme's cluttered deck, grinned sar
donically at the indignant note of protest.

"The beasts have more sense than we," he grunted to him
self.

A great glare of torches beat upon the quay, and the
masts and hulls of the ships appeared and disappeared in the
flickering light like living things. Ashore the streets were
dotted with fires that wove a patchwork pattern across the
starless mantle of the night. Men's voices, rattling hoofs, the
din and crash of shifted cargo were fused in one thunderous
cacophony.

"They should hear us in Rome," mused Hamilcar.

He crossed the grating above the larboard oar-banks, and
wrinkled his beaked nose at the fetid stench of the close-
packed slaves.

"Phaugh, it is long since I smelt that smell ! Sea, there was
a time when you meant much to me, but I think Carthage
and I are no longer in your debt. Better mould in dry earth
than rot in water !"

Forward he came to the ladder ascending to the forecastle,
and climbed this to secure a better view of the spectacle; but

44

HANNO'S SWORD 45

as he reached the top a dark figure stepped from the shelter
of the catapult that cumbered most of the deck-space.

"Back, soldier," snapped the newcomer. "Your quarters
are below."

"And who are you ?" returned Hamilcar coolly.

"My name is Norgon. I command this trireme."

Hamilcar peered closer as a cresset of pine-knots on the
quay alongside flared up in a sudden burst of yellow light.

"Norgon ! Cast back, Norgon. Once, when you were a
youth, there was a lad named Hamilcar, who rode with you
in the armored horse. But that was before Hannibal marched
from Spain — or before you captained a trireme. Is it too far
gone in the years for memory ?"

The other bent forward in his turn, and the two fierce,
hawk-nosed faces frowned from under the helmets' rims.

"I remember Hamilcar," answered the sailor slowly. "But
he was young — and beardless."

"Look," bade the other. "That was a youth's age ago. By
Astarte, friend, there is frost on your head as well as mine."

Norgon nodded almost wearily.

"It is true, Hamilcar. We have not grown younger, either
of us. So you rode with Hannibal into Italy ?"

"I led my troop of horse out of Spain," answered Hamilcar
moodily. "That was fifteen winters ago — a youth's age,
as I said. And now I sail back to Carthage, captain of some
four hundred Gaulish infantry, I, who was to be general
over armies and Hannibal's right hand !"

The sailor's teeth showed in a wolfish grin of appreci
ation.

"Youth's ambitions ! Who realizes them ? There was a
day I saw myself leading squadrons in a battle that should
sweep Rome from the sea. And what happens ? I sail a
trireme to Crotona in the fleet that fetches home the wreck
age of Hannibal's army to stand betwixt Carthage and Scipio.
The gods will have none of us, old friend."

"They will have none of Carthage, either," exclaimed
Hamilcar. "Even Hannibal has lost their favor. By the Ram,

46

Norgon, this is a strange experience for some of us, who rode
in the rout at Lake Trasimene and Cannse, red to the bridles
with Roman blood ! It is a great night for the Legions."

"Rome triumphs," assented Norgon. "There will be fight
ing yet, but not even Hannibal can avert the wreck — for
Carthage is rotten, old friend, the Senate think first of their
own fortune, last of the public good. There is jealousy of
Hannibal. Watch what happens after the fleet returns. If
Scipio does not take the city the Senate will fall upon you
of the 'Italian' party and cast you by companies in the Byrsa
cells."

Hamilcar rapped his sword-hilt on the rail.

"Let them try it ! Do they think we will go to the fur
naces like Nubian captives ?"

"Ah, but they will set the city against you ! They will
divide you against each other. They will tell some of your
generals that Hannibal has taken over-much credit, and so —
But you know the tricks. Soldiers and sailors are of no use
at politics, Hamilcar."

"I will have nothing to do with such tricks," fumed Hamil
car. "Sooner than be gulled by a set of fat-bellied mer
chants — "

He broke off as the continued squealing of elephants was
dominated by an angry trumpeting. Up the quay, where a
giant quinquereme was berthed, arose a frantic babble of
voices.

"There is trouble with the elephants," he said, leaning over
the rail to peer into the darkness.

Norgon shrugged his shoulders.

"We have scant room for men. It is foolish to embark ele
phants when there are plenty at home."

"No, no. Hannibal is right," said Hamilcar. "Leave
anything that is strange to them for the Romans to study,
and they soon learn how to use it or counter it. We cannot
abandon the elephants."

He called down to an officer who was hurrying along the
quay.

HANNO'S SWORD 47

"What is wrong? Are men needed to handle the ele
phants ?"

"No more men are needed," replied the officer. "One ele
phant will not follow its mates aboard the quinquereme, and
Baraka, the Captain of the Elephants, is taking it back to the
stables."

"Is any one hurt ?" asked Norgon.

"The General Hanno. I go for the physicians."

"Hanno !" exclaimed Hamilcar. "That is strange."

"Is this the Hanno who is called 'of the Sword' ?" asked
the sailor.

"Yes, he was in charge of embarking all troops. Gods, if
he should meet his end through a sullen beast, he whom no
steel could touch !"

Norgon signed himself with the crescent.

"I have heard of him. He has a wizard sword."

"I know not if it be a wizard sword," said Hamilcar; "but
it is a sure blade, and a true. And of all of us who followed
Hannibal from Spain Hanno has been foremost in every
battle — and never a scratch to show for it. Still, I would
rather die under steel than be smashed by an elephant."

They fell silent as a little procession of men passed up the
quay.

"I should like to learn more of this," said Norgon. "How
if we followed them ? There is ample time."

Hamilcar tugged thoughtfully at his beard.

"Yes, there is no man in the army like Hanno — and no
sword to compare with his. My Gauls are safely stowed
below. So lead on, Norgon. How shall we go ?"

The sailor raised a coil of rope from the base of the cata
pult and tossed it over the ship's side.

"A sailor can land this way," he replied. "And if a soldier
cannot, there is a gangplank in the waist."

Hamilcar slung his big shield on his back with a resound
ing clang.

"A soldier can follow anywhere a sailor he has ridden
with of old," he growled.

48 QR€ Y

A moment afterward they were striding together up the
quay, threading a path between parties of soldiers, slaves load
ing stores and troops of frightened horses. They had almost
caught up with the group surrounding the injured officer
when a tall figure in gilded mail stepped directly in front of
the litter-bearers.

"Hannibal," murmured Hamilcar.

The Iberian slingers who carried Hanno halted, and their
officer, a dissipated-looking Greek, came to the salute. But
Hannibal paid no heed to them. He had eyes only for the
limp body the Iberians carried shoulder-high, and at a word
from him they lowered their burden gently to the stones,
while he stooped over it. A mutter of voices came faintly to
Hamilcar and Norgon, then Hannibal rose quickly and de
livered a curt order to the Greek mercenary.

"To the Temple of Juno," he said. "In all things do as
Hanno bids you."

The next moment he was gone, his face very sad and white
in the torchlight, his broad shoulders braced back as though
with the physical exertion of supporting his responsibilities.

"So that is Hannibal !" commented Norgon as the Iberians
lifted the litter and continued on their way. "Gods ! He
has aged no less than we. Well, what next ?"

Hamilcar was staring after the litter.

"Some one must fall heir to that sword," the soldier re
flected aloud.

"And why not you ?" gibed Norgon. "O me, eh ?"

"Why not ?" echoed Hamilcar. "I — we are old, but with
the Gods' favor — and that sword — Come, it is worth
trying !"

"Anything is worth trial in defeat," endorsed the sailor.
"But why carry a dying man to the Temple of Juno ?"

The soldier knit his brows, puzzled.

"I do not know, unless — Ha, yes, Hannibal has reared
there tablets of bronze inscribed with the names of his vic
tories, the towns he has taken, the provinces he has ravaged
and subdued, the Consuls he has humbled. And Hanno, like

HANNO'S SWORD 49

the old lion he is, will die in the shadow of the great deeds
he helped to perform."

Norgon's features twisted as if with pain.

"Great deeds," he repeated. "And for what purpose ?
Rome triumphs, despite them."

"Yet it is not we who have fought with Hannibal who
must own shame," cried Hamilcar. "The Legions have never
seen our backs."

"That is the shame of it," answered Norgon. "Fourteen
campaigns has Hannibal waged, undefeated. And now he
must leave Italy because Carthage is too weak to stand with
out him. Carthage defeats him, I say, not Rome !"

"I would I might never see Carthage again," scowled the
soldier.

"Moloch hear me, but I feel as you ! But what next ?"

"The sword !"

"Jackals' work, but jackals we are, old men who have
failed. Come, then !" A note of hopefulness rang in his
voice. "Perhaps we shall have to fight the Iberians."

"Those fellows !" snorted Hamilcar. "I know Colchus,
that Greek who commands them. Leave them to me ! We
are not mercenaries."

II

ON the steps of the temple they met Colchus and his Iberians
descending, and the Greek hailed Hamilcar with an amused
leer.

"So the sword draws you, too, old wolf !"

"Have you a better right to it ?" growled the Carthaginian.

"There are two of us, Greek," added Norgon.

"Two or twenty, I care not," answered Colchus coolly.
"Hannibal bade me see that Hanno passed as he wished —
and he wishes to pass, undisturbed, here in the temple."

The Carthaginians stepped back, crestfallen.

"Oh, if Hannibal will have the sword it is not for us to
push forward," grumbled Hamilcar.

50 QRCY

"Not he," denied the Greek. "But the plain truth is that
Hanno is of no mind to yield it up so long as he has strength
to hold it. He would have us set him down under those tab
lets Hannibal placed above the altar, and there he lies, pulp
from the thighs down, the sword in his hand. *I am finished,'
he said. 'Send away the physicians. But perhaps I can last
until the Romans come, and if the Gods will that I would
face them armed/ Yes, Hamilcar, to Hannibal he said:
'Grieve not. I would rather end so. And it is fitting I should
hold the army's rear. It will seem like old days when we
lured Sempronious to the shambles at the Trebia.' He —
Hannibal — could have wept, I think."

"A man to share deckroom with, this Hanno," remarked
Norgon.

"Honor to him," rumbled Hamilcar. "He is luckier than
we, who may live to wear Roman chains."

"He who lives, lives," said Colchus cynically. "Better
be a horseboy alive than a King and dead. But as to this
sword — "

"No, no," protested Hamilcar, "I will be first to defend
Hanno 's right to it. Tanit send me a like death !"

The Greek shuddered.

"A poor prayer, my friend. Death comes, in any case.
But you mistook me. What I would say is that Hanno's life
ebbs fast. By morning he will have no more need for his
sword, and then — "

"Why, then," rasped Norgon, "the best man who claims
it will have it."

"Something like that," agreed the Greek. "But by Her
cules, three claimants are enough. We shall do nobody a serv
ice if we spread the news. Now, I suggest that we tarry
patiently against the morning's coming, and when the Gods
have accepted Hanno's spirit we poor mortals, betwixt us, one
way or another, can arrange who shall inherit Hanno's
sword."

Hamilcar looked questioningly at Norgon.

"My ship can do without me," said the sailor slowly.

HANNO'S SWORD 51

"And so can my Gauls," affirmed Hamilcar. "We shall
soon be bound fast to your decks, eh ? And there should be
luck in this sword."

"Luck ?" grumbled Norgon. "Humph, if to be crushed by
an elephant is luck ! But I own to a wish to see so strange a
blade. And at the least, a man may say with truth that he
would be honored to possess the sword of Hanno."

"Honor is often luck, and luck is usually honorable," said
Colchus, chuckling. "Shall we pour a libation to the Gods in
Hanno's behalf — and perhaps each man for himself ? I know
a wineshop behind here in the Street of the Rhodians where
they had some sound Carian this noon. There may be a skin
or two left."

Norgon ran his tongue over sun-dried lips.

"Now, that is a suggestion surpassing all else you have
said, Greek," proclaimed the sailor. "Wine ? By the Ram,
let us seek it out !"

"A man never knows when he may drink again," agreed
Hamilcar. "Lead, Colchus. We must take all we can with
us. Bah ! What else is left to us but to drink ?"

"You are not happy," answered Colchus, with a shrug.
"He who is unhappy should drink deep. But let me post my
Iberians. They will keep the sword safe for us — And after
wards we can decide who shall have it. He must be a deep
drinker, for the sword has drunk deep. It is always thirsty
— like a young maid for love, Hanno said. He is a droll
fellow, Hanno, lying there with his crushed legs and the
grey sword he can scarcely lift. He says he is thinking of
the lives it has taken. *I accustom myself to the company of
ghosts as I wait to hail Charon's bark.' He has as pleasant
thoughts as Hamilcar."

"He knows a man's death is not worth considering when
a whole nation drifts toward death," replied Hamilcar.

"He knows death is the surest of messengers," said Nor
gon. "Yes, yes, he would be a good shipmate, this Hanno.
Why fear the unescapable ? If the sword could not protect
him — "

52 QR€Y

"Yet the three of us seek the sword," jeered Colchus. "For
myself, comrades, I hold that no man welcomes death before
he must. Until the shadow falls life savors sweet on the
tongue, and if a certain sword will win me one more kiss or
another cup of wine I'll slay my shieldmate to have it."

"Humph," growled Hamilcar, "we are warned in time."

And the sailor menaced the Greek:

"Remember, there are two of us !"

"It would seem the advantage is on your side," grinned
Colchus.

ill

CHOKING and sputtering as the water sluiced through his
beard, Hamilcar pulled himself up on the bench.

"Brrr ! Squolsh ! Has that Greek — May the furies — "

"Yes, all drunk as Greeks," answered a voice like the edge
of a saw. "Ha, it is good for you Hannibal is not here ! An
empty town — except for a handful of neighing Iberians —
and an elephant and drunkards ! Ill work, I say. Phaugh !
Drunk as Greeks, and the three of you officers !"

Blinking the water from his bleary eyes, Hamilcar peered
unsteadily across the table at a little, bow-legged man in the
light brass breastplate and helmet of the Numidian Horse,
whose flatness of nose and kinky locks betrayed the half-
breed.

"Hold your tongue," snarled Hamilcar. "Are you always
free with your betters ?"

"If you are my better, you will have to prove it," said
the little, bow-legged man composedly. "Who are you ?"

"I am Hamilcar, of the Gaulish Infantry."

"And I am Mago of the Numidians. Why did you not
send to warn me when the fleet sailed ?"

Hamilcar staggered to his feet, amazed, and for the first
time perceived his two companions huddled amongst the
floor-rushes. The sailor was snoring audibly.

" The fleet sailed !' " he repeated dumbly. "When ?"

HANNO'S SWORD 53

The little, bow-legged man lifted his eyebrows.

"When ? The Iberians say it was on the verge of dawn.
It seems there was a sudden alarm — a trireme came in with
word the Roman fleet was off Tagentum — and our people
were away as swiftly as they could fend oars." Indignation
grated in the thin voice. "Ba'al's wrath, it was not like Han
nibal to flee without giving the outposts time to draw in !
Here am I left with close to three hundred men, and not a
ship for the lot of us."

Hamilcar propped his aching brow on one hand, and tried
to think.

"It must have been sudden," he groaned. "Last night there
was no intent to sail before dawn. We — the three of us
stopped for a drink — to pour a libation — "

"To guzzle a vintage !" rapped the little Numidian.
"What am I to do with my men ? The Romans are fond of
us Numidians ! Well, what do you say ? Don't sit there
like an offering on the altar !"

The word "altar" reminded Hamilcar of Hanno — and
the sword.

"What of Hanno ?" he asked eagerly. "The General
Hanno, fool ! He lies in the Temple of Juno — "

The Numidian whistled softly.

"So that was why the Iberians were posted there ! They
would not let me in without their officer's permission, sent
me here to find him. So Hanno was left to command us ?
That's not so bad. He — "

"No, no," exclaimed Hamilcar impatiently. "He is dy
ing — or dead. An elephant crushed him, and Hannibal
ordered him left in the Temple. It was his wish."

"Was that why Baraka, the Captain of the Elephants, was
left, too ?" demanded Mago. "He waxed sullen when I
called to him as we passed the barracks, said something about
one of his beasts being mad."

"How should I know ?" answered Hamilcar. "Gods,
what a mad business ! Is it to be wondered that an elephant
should go must ?"

54

He dragged himself to a window whence he had a view of
the bay, sapphire-blue against the green of the shore slopes —
and empty ! Not a ship, not a sail, near at hand or within
the scope of the horizon's band. A few people moved in the
sunny streets, a troop of Numidians was picketed at the
next corner. In rear of the temple stood a brace of the Iber
ian sentries Colchus had posted before they began their
carouse.

"The wreck of the wreck of an army," he muttered.

"What ?" snapped Mago.

But Hamilcar ignored the question.

"Is there more water ? Help me with these others. Make
haste, man ! We have scant time. If the Romans learn
of this our lives will not be worth a broken javelin."

The Numidian picked up a big, brown amphora from the
floor and sprayed a stream of water on Norgon's head.
Hamilcar fell to work on the Greek. The sailor came to
first, groaning and belching windily, presently cursing and
complaining; but Colchus must be pummeled as well as
soaked before his sodden wits threw off the effects of the
wine.

"Drunk as Greeks," complained the little, bow-legged
horseman as he labored over Norgon. "A woman could have
slain the three of you as you lay here."

"Only one Greek," said Norgon with drunken gravity.
"Two Carthaginians, one Greek, all three drunk — drunk as
— drunk as Romans."

"Where's — sword ?" asked Colchus abruptly.

He swayed to his feet.

"You get sword, Hamilcar ?" he pressed.

"Hanno still has the sword," replied the Carthaginian, "and
your Iberians mount their guard. Come, friends, let us go
to him, and ask his advice. If he lives, that is."

"Why — ask — advice ?" challenged the Greek. "Take
sword — that's all."

Hamilcar explained their plight, and Colchus sobered as

HANNO'S SWORD 55

though a keen wind had blown through his brain and cleansed
it of the night's vapors.

"Great Hector, this is bad ! The fleet gone — and the
Romans beyond those hills. How close, Mago ?"

"No legions nearer than Venosa," said the Numidian; "but
horse — " he waved a hand vaguely — "who can say? Any
where out there."

"Perhaps we can find a ship," spoke up Norgon hopefully.
"I am a sailor, my friends, I can sail a ship for you — "

"There may be a fishing-boat or two on the beach," said
the Numidian brusquely; "but everything that would keep
afloat sailed with Hannibal. All the townsfolk went who
might be accused of friendliness with us. Forget the sea.
We can not take to it, if we wish."

There was an interval of silence, and in the midst of it the
stamping hoofs of the horses at the corner beat like distant
drums. A bee buzzed in and out the window.

Colchus reached under the table and dragged out a flabby
wine-skin.

"Here's a drop to settle your stomachs, friends," he said
casually. "Well, why be cast down ? All Italy is in front
of us."

"If we can ever wriggle out of Bruttium," returned Ham-
ilcar.

The Numidian nodded approval.

"Yes, yes, we are in the heel of the sack here. If we are
to break free we must have elbow-room."

Norgon stared at the three of them aghast.

"You are out of your minds ! What hope for us is there
in Italy ? Gods, it stretches away for hundreds and hun
dreds of stadia, long and lean like an Iberian. We are down
in his foot. Will the Romans let us escape clear up his leg ?"

"Who can say what the Romans will do ?" retorted Col
chus. "But we can say this, comrades: they are not so well-
loved in Italy, are they ?"

"My Numidians know the hills like their own deserts,"

5 6 QRCY

added Mago. "We have raided in every province for four
teen summers, now. But he was right who said we should
seek Hanno's advice. Hanno of the Sword is the general for
me — after Hannibal. Ha, many is the time I have followed
him in the slaughter, him and his Grey Maid !"

"So you know the sword, too !" commented Colchus.

"Who does not ? The best blade ever forged, men say.
Wizards wrought it. He who wields it need never fear
steel."

"But it is of no avail against an elephant afraid of a gang
plank," amended the Greek. "And now there are four of us
to heir Hanno !"

The Numidian looked puzzled.

"I have no claim to it." He shook his head. "The spirits
protect me ! The sword is not my weapon. I fight with
bow and javelin."

"So be it," said Hamilcar. "Well, have we talked enough ?
Here, give me that skin, Colchus ! The man might have
thirsted a week. Will you drink, Mago ? No ? Then one
draught to cleanse my mouth. The rest is yours, Norgon.
A monster, this one, he could drain the sea ! I am full of
wine-courage, friends. Let us see what the wreck of a
wrecked army can accomplish. If Hanno yet lives, he is
the man to relish such an undertaking. Come, Colchus, and
pass us through your Iberians."

rv

THE Iberian sentries stood aside from the temple door with
a dry rattle of missile-pouches as the four officers tramped
across the pillared porch.

"A gloomy place to die," grunted Mago, then corrected
himself at sight of the interior, lofty and spacious, the altar
opposite the door bathed in sunlight that flooded down from
an opening in the roof: "But a soldier could find a worse
tomb."

HANNO'S SWORD 57

"A tomb it is become," said Hamilcar, pointing to the still
figure that lay on a heap of cloaks and hangings at the foot
of the altar-steps.

The words echoed back from the marble walls, and a hand
fluttered amongst the tumbled cloths. Eyes gleamed vividly
in the leaden face. But the voice that answered Hamilcar
seemed to come from a great distance.

"You, Colchus ? And who else ?"

The Greek stepped forward, suavely deferential, contriv
ing a certain martial dignity, for all his wine-spotted cuirass
and dingy helm and the floor-rushes in the folds of his kilt.

"Three of our Captains, Hanno. We come to you for
advice. The fleet is gone, and we left behind with a handful
of men."

The eyes blazed brighter, the timbre of the far-off voice
was more definite.

"Left ! How chanced it ? That is not like Hannibal."

"Why, Mago and his Numidians held the outposts, and
there was no time to call them in." Colchus hesitated.
"These others — bided with me."

The four had advanced closer to the altar's foot, and
Hanno's eyes surveyed the two Carthaginians with a kind of
satirical humor.

"They bided with you !" An uncanny touch of mockery
in the feeble tones. "Did they drink with you ?"

"Some while, yes," Colchus answered unwillingly.

"I thought so." The mockery was more pronounced.
"By the Sword, I could wager Hannibal sent to withdraw
you, Colchus, and you were not to be found. So your men
were left — and these others. How are you called ?" He
addressed Hamilcar abruptly. "I have seen you, but your
name — "

"I am Hamilcar. I hold a command in the Gaulish in
fantry. My friend Norgon is a captain in the triremes.
He — came with me. We were curious about your acci
dent."

"My accident !" The eyes twinkled with raillery. "It

5 8 QK€r

was not — my sword ? I marked Colchus hungering for
it — last night."

Hamilcar swallowed hard.

"Any man would wish to have Hanno's sword," he said
stiffly.

"Humph ! An honest man. But there are four of you."

"Mago says the sword is no weapon of his," replied Hamil
car. "We others — Well, when three men desire the same
thing there is always a way to settle it."

Hanno's head shook ever so gently; his bloodless lips
quirked into a smile.

"No man gains anything by fighting for this sword; it
goes where it will. It is a wanderer."

His right hand fumbled in his cloak, and raised a long grey
blade a few inches from the folds. The steel was marked
with little whorls and wavy lines, and in it were etched
letters and symbols in many tongues. It hovered in air for
a breath or two, then sank again as his hand wavered beneath
the weight. Tiny beads of sweat on his brow told of the
effort he had made.

"I — weaken," he said irrelevantly.

There was silence while the four officers grouped around
him stared down at his grizzled face and the shattered rem
nant of what had been a giant's frame.

"Heed me," he said at last. "If Hannibal is gone, I com
mand here. When I am dead — Humph, let the sword com
mand. You hear ? He who has the sword commands. I
know you Captains, always jealous, always disputing with
one another. So let the sword be arbiter. But never fight
for it. Remember, it goes where it will."

The perspiration covered his whole face. Norgon stooped
quickly, and offered him a little amphora of wine which
rested on the altar-step. The dying man sipped a swallow,
then motioned it away.

"There is no luck in the sword unless it comes to you of
its own accord," he resumed. "So my father said, and he
had it of a Roman in the sea-fight of the ^Egates Isles; and

HANNO'S SWORD 59

the Roman had it of a Cretan pirate, and the pirate had it of
a drowned man. But he — the Cretan — had known of it
before, or so he said. It has a long history, old as human
life, I think. Men have slain each other with it for ages.
What tales it could tell !"

He took another swallow of the wine.

"They say it is a lucky sword. Well, of that you must
judge. True, it kept me safe from steel's edge, as it kept
my father, and the Roman, and the Cretan and the man who
was drowned. But all of us came by death in the ordinary-
course. Still, every man has his own idea of luck. But the
sword's luck goes only to him who comes by it naturally.
Fight for it, if you will. One of you will win, but the sword
will not stay with him for that reason. No, no ! Gamble
for it, rather — and if it will have none of the winner, if by
any mischance it goes to another, leave it with him, unless it
seeks a new master."

The four who stood over him eyed one another uncer
tainly.

"But if we fight, Hanno," said Colchus, "it will be as much
of a gamble for the sword as if we pitched knuckle-bones."

"You cannot afford to sacrifice your lives in that fashion."
The faint voice became stern. "It is for you four to carry
your men safe out of Italy. And that will require the wits
and craft and weapon-skill of every one of you."

"But how ?" queried Hamilcar.

"Take to the mountains — the Numidians know every
byway. Ride like the wind — and always north and west.
Fight when you must, but flee when you can. In Apulia
and Etruria the people are friendly to us, hostile to Rome.
You can find friends elsewhere. When you reach the north
ern mountains cross into Gaul."

Hanno's voice was so low that they had all to bend down
to hear it.

"But then ?" asked Colchus.

"No, I can say no more. From Gaul you may reach
Spain. Or, if Carthage is beaten, you might do better to

60

take to yourselves wives in some far country of the North
beyond reach of the Roman eagles. The sword will see you
safe."

"Safe ?" queried the Greek eagerly. "Did you say it would
see us safe ?"

Hanno's eyes lighted up once more with a gust of vitality.

"Not all. No, no, my Colchus, be reasonable. Men must
die to carry some of you safe, but safe some of you will be —
if you follow the sword."

Hamilcar bent closer to the general.

"Give it to one of us," he urged. "Give the sword to one
of us for a sign."

The grizzled head rolled in negation.

"The sword goes where it will. That is how to make sure
of its luck. Gamble for it. Follow whoever wins it. And
if it leaves you altogether, forget it. You cannot compel it.
Remember that. It comes to a man, and fights for him.
Sometimes it will fight for his son, and his son's sons. But
it stays with no man longer than it lists."

"But if it goes to a Roman ?" cried Norgon.

"It came from a Roman. If it wishes to, it will return to
a Roman."

The sweat was heavy as dew all over Hanno's face. His
voice choked.

"Lift me," he ordered abruptly. "Yes, by the arms, two
of you. Face me — Where are those tablets Hannibal set
up for the Romans ? My eyes are dim. Show me."

Colchus and Norgon raised him; Hamilcar turned his loll
ing head toward the angular lines of Punic lettering erected
on the altar. The little bow-legged Numidian was crying.

"Is my sword in my hand ?" asked Hanno. "Leave it to
me — while I live — or I will set a curse upon you all. Ha,
the light grows better ! I see the tablets, now. 'The Trebia,
40,000 Romans slain — Trasimene, the Consul Flaminius
killed, 15,000 Romans slain, 20,000 taken — Cannse, 72,000
Romans slain or taken of 87,000 — J The light grows dim
again — Who said Hannibal was beaten ? — No, no, Carth-

HANNO'S SWORD 61

age is beaten — Rome is beaten — never Hannibal — Ho,
Keepers of the Underworld, a place for Hanno ! I am weary
of victory."

MAGO brandished a javelin at the statue of the goddess be
hind the altar, brooding and aloof.

"How could a man live in the shadow of that stone
witch ?" shrilled the half breed. "Let us destroy it !"

But Colchus waved him back.

"You err, friend. It was an elephant, not a statue, de
stroyed Hanno. And this temple he would have for tomb,
even as Hannibal left it. What we came for was the sword."

The Greek's hand hovered toward the plain hilt of the
weapon that Hanno's fingers clutched in a grip that impressed
the silver-wire binding upon the stiffening flesh. But Ham-
ilcar thrust him aside.

"You are hasty," rebuked the Carthaginian. "Have you
forgotten so soon the injunction Hanno laid upon us ?"

"Yes, yes," assented Norgon. "Not so fast, Greek, not so
fast. Gamble for it, said Hanno."

"What harm to try its balance ?" scowled Colchus. "But
have your way. How will you gamble for it ?"

"So," answered Hamilcar, and he plucked a handful of
floor-rushes from the folds of the Greek's kilt. "Here, Mago,
you will have none of the sword, you say ?"

"The sword is not my weapon," returned Mago doggedly.
"And whatever you say or Hanno thought, I think there is
bad luck in this sword."

"What you think is of no account," Colchus snapped ill-
temperedly. "This affair lies between us three. We — we
are white men."

"White or black, all men must die," said the Numidian
serenely; "and I think, too, that he who keeps away from
that sword will live longer than those who are tempted to it."

"Very possibly," interposed Hamilcar; "but death owes
none of us anything; we have played with it too long. As

62 QR£Y

for Mago, if he is good enough to command Numidians he
is good enough to fight beside me. So I suggest that we give
him these rushes to hold. Each- of us three shall draw one
from his hand, and he who has the longest shall have the
sword."

"A fair device," approved Norgon.

Colchus gulped down a curse.

"There is no skill in drawing a rush by chance," he ob
jected.

"No, it is an honest gamble such as Hanno had in mind,"
Hamilcar agreed smoothly. "But if you wish, Colchus, you
may have the first draw."

"Yes, let him have the first draw," grumbled Norgon.

The Greek hesitated, then snatched at the three rushes pro
jecting from Mago's clenched fist.

"It is not very long," he said dazedly.

"Not so long as this, by Tanit's help," said Norgon, draw
ing his rush in obedience to a gesture from Hamilcar.

"But longer than the third," said Mago, opening his hand
to reveal Hamilcar's.

Colchus cursed openly, but Hamilcar clapped Norgon on
the back.

"You win. Ha, a sailor, you shall command soldiers !
The hills shall be your sea, old friend. Take up the sword.
Go on ! Hanno would have wished it so."

Mago nodded approval of this.

"Luck won him the sword, whether it be good-luck or
bad-luck. But what happens if Norgon is slain ? Who
has the sword, then ?"

"Why, we can draw again," offered Hamilcar.

But Colchus objected vigorously.

"Not so. Let whoever first reaches the dead man's side
take it. That is the fairest way to permit the sword to
choose a master."

Hamilcar shrugged his massive shoulders.

"I am content; but it is my hope that we shall need no
fresh master for the sword. Come, take it up, Norgon."

HANNO'S SWORD 63

The sailor stooped and gently unfastened the dead fingers
from the hilt. A great light shone in his face as he straight
ened himself, and swung the grey blade at arm's length.

"Gods, what a sword !" he exclaimed. "It is as if it were
a part of me. It balances like a leaf in the air. And the
edge ! See !"

He dropped it flat across his arm, and razorwise, shaved
the hairs off a patch above his wrist. Hamilcar pointed a
trembling finger at the whorl-marked steel.

"There are marks on it. Other men have set their names
to it, perhaps."

Colchus, craning closer, his envy momentarily forgotten,
cried out at a certain symbol immediately under the hilt.

"That is Egyptian. By Hercules, it is a Pharaoh's mark !
And beside it is the Egyptian Seft for sword. Ah, Norgon,
great is your fortune ! A king's sword should carve you a
rich future."

The sailor grinned in embarrassment.

"For my future, I hope only that it will see me clear of
Italy. I have had too intimate an acquaintance with oar-
slaves to desire to spend my days rowing in a Roman trireme.
But the morning wanes, friends, and we have to decide on
our course. What are we to do ?"

Nobody spoke for a considerable interval, and again
through the silence sounded the stamping of the Numidians*
horses outside and the buzzing of the bees.

"There are some few — drunkards — " Mago stressed
the word faintly — "scattered about the town, who might
be flogged to willingness to bear arms. Also, there is Baraka
and his elephant."

"That elephant has taken sufficient toll," protested Col
chus.

"Nevertheless, an elephant is feared by the Romans," said
Hamilcar; "and if this one is out of his mad fit he is safe to
employ. How if we go to Baraka, and learn his mind con
cerning our plight — which is no less his plight ?"

And as nobody answered:

"But Norgon commands us. It is for him to say what
we do."

"I asked for advice, old friend," quoth the sailor; "and I
am free to admit to you that I am more accustomed to fight
ing afloat than ashore, and what is more, I know nothing of
Italy, while you know it as I do the sea. So those who have
advice, render it. Hamilcar has spoken. What say you,
Colchus ?"

"I say that it was a wise gamble for the sword which placed
us under a leader who is ignorant how to conduct us to
safety," rasped the Greek.

"Are you better-informed ?" snapped Hamilcar.

"If he is ignorant of Italy, he is willing to ask advice —
and to fight beside Numidians," spoke up Mago.

"That am I," declared Norgon heartily.

"My advice," continued Mago, "is to mount every man
you can, take Baraka and his elephant, and strike over the
hills into Lucania before the Roman legions close in. We
shall have to fight, as it is; but from Lucania we can work
into Apulia, and so, with some help from the countryfolk,
northwards toward Etruria. That is as far as my mind sees
today."

"And far enough," sneered the Greek. "For who ever
heard of a Numidian who predicted the future ! The man
might be the Delphic Oracle !"

"What is your advice, then ?" asked Norgon.

"Fight free of the Romans. What else is there to do ?"

"And that is what Mago advised, although in more con
sidered terms," remarked Hamilcar.

"It is all any man can advise," said the Numidian. "We
are the spoil of luck, subject to the whims of that sword.
It would be folly to plan far ahead. Talk to Baraka, Nor
gon, and if he agrees, then we can leave the town."

"And — this?"

Norgon pointed to the body of Hanno.

"Leave him," said Hamilcar. "It was his wish to receive
the Romans when they enter."

HANNO'S SWORD 65

"He mocks them as he lies," exclaimed Colchus in sudden
awe.

A beam of sunlight from the roof trickled across the gaunt
features, revealing the lips parted in a sinister grin of derision.

"They know more than we, the dead," murmured the
Greek, awe turned to superstition. "Zeus guard us ! Is it
us he mocks, by any chance ?"

No man answered him, but the four stole silently from the
temple's echoing emptiness. It was as if a chill had fallen
in the full tide of sunny noon.

VI

BARAKA was a wispy, leathery bit of a man, with a white
kilt around his loins and a tangled mass of lank black hair
through which his eyes smouldered like hot coals. He was
half Indian, offspring of a Sidonian mother and a Hindu
mahout, sullen and aloof as one of his own beasts. He re
ceived the four officers at the entrance to a courtyard wherein
the slayer of Hanno was picketed, vast rump swaying rhy
thmically as the pliant trunk conveyed bunch after bunch
of hay into the cavity of the mouth, little eyes squinting with
sidewise cunning at the visitors.

Why should I go with you ?" he answered disagreeably.
"The Captain of the Elephants is important no longer. Han
nibal sails away without even a thought for me !"

"I might say as much," returned Mago. "My Numidians
were forgotten."

"Who would have expected you to hide yourself with a
beast that had gone must ?" demanded Colchus. "It serves
you right."

The hot eyes sparked at the Greek.

"Nobody interfered when I calmed the Big One, and led
him off before he might trumpet his way down the quay,"
retorted Baraka. "But that is the old story: a man is given
respect while he is needed. Hannibal returns to Carthage,
and the Captain of the Elephants is no longer necessary."

66 QR£Y

Hamilcar made a gesture of dissent.

"You have served under Hannibal as long as I, Baraka,"
he said. "You know as well as I that Hannabal never aban
doned any faithful officer, if he could help himself. There
was an alarm in the night. 'Roman galleys off the capes !
The Roman fleet off Targentum !' By the wrath of Moloch,
who could stop to figure what each man did ? 'Cast off,'
ordered Hannibal, for what was left of the army was more
valuable than you or I or that great idiot of a beast that
waggles his tail like a Nubian dancing-girl."

"Was there no summons through the streets ?" asked Mago.

"Oh, yes," Baraka admitted. "The quay-guards ran from
door to door, and the trumpets blew twice. But nought was
said of the Big One here — and was I to abandon him ?"

"We are not suggesting that you abandon him," said Col-
chus.

"I am finished with the Army," replied the Captain of the
Elephants. "Hannibal left me here — and here will I stay,
and the Big One with me."

"And bide the coming of the Romans ?" inquired Hamil
car.

"Why not ? I have faced Romans before today. They
will have little sport out of me."

"But the Big One," said Norgon slily. "He will fare ill
at the Romans' hands."

A look of uncertainty clouded Baraka's face; the smoulder
ing eyes lost some of their fire.

"I had not thought of that," he answered. "But the Big
One oan take care of himself. A whole cohort of Romans
would not be able to harm him when he has on his armor."

"They would not try to harm him," said Hamilcar.
"They would capture him and learn from him the use of
elephants in war, so that they might readily resist our el
ephants in the future. And that would mean the death of
many elephants, Baraka."

The Captain of the Elephants shuffled his feet in the dust,
more uncertain than ever.

HANNO'S SWORD 67

"True," he conceded. "And you ? What can you do
for the Big One ?"

"Why, if we succeed," replied Norgon, "we will break out
of Italy into Gaul — "

"Across those snow-mountains ?" Baraka was aghast.
"Ah, my Big One's feet were cut to the quick by the ice !
Take him through there again ? Never !"

"Then will he become a chance for the Romans to learn
how to master his brethren," insisted Hamilcar. "And after
ward, probably, they will poison him."

Baraka's face became livid.

"Not while I live ! First I will venture the snow-moun
tains with him. Yes, I will wrap his feet in hides. Some
way I will get him through."

"But before we get him through the snow-mountains we
must pass the length of Italy," Norgon reminded him. "And
if that is to be done, we have no time to lose."

"It will not be I who delay you," shrilled Baraka. "Gather
your men, and see if I am behind them when your trumpets
sound !"

"So you will come with us ?"

"Come with you ! What would you have me do ? Stay,
and assist these cursed Romans to slay elephants as they do
Carthaginians ? Bah ! And though Hannibal left me, I
may yet surprise him by guiding the Big One up the road
to Byrsa one of these days. Let us escape from Italy, and
it will be because the gods owe us no favor if we do not find
a path into Spain or pick up a ship that can ferry us over
sea."

Norgon hesitated.

"We have all taken pledge of loyalty to this sword," he
said finally, exhibiting the lean grey blade. "It was Hanno's,
and — "

Baraka cackled.

"I have heard of it ! A wizard sword — which could not
preserve its owner from the Big One's feet. Heh-heh ! He
tramples hard. Well, if you will follow it, I have nothing to

68 QR£r

say. Myself, I ride the Big One's back. The rest is for you
to manage."

"We have agreed," explained Hamilcar, "that he who car
ries the sword shall be leader."

"Let him be," assented Baraka. "What have I to do with
a sword ? It is not my weapon. If I can not ride from
Italy behind the Big One's ears, no sword will hew me a
path."

Colchus exhaled a deep sigh of relief.

"Then it is still between the three of us !"

"You are not anxious for me to live long, my friend ?"
observed Norgon drily.

Hamilcar shook his head, annoyed.

"This is a bad spirit for men in our position," he declared.
"By Tanit, Colchus, our lot will not be improved if Norgon
is slain. Forget the sword !"

Mago, the little, bow-legged Numidian, wagged his black
face at the others.

"Who can forget the sword ?" he reminded them. "It is
like a god, for we trust in it and fear it — and my experience
is that the gods are as likely to deal harm as good. That is
the trouble with them: they do not act like men, so you can
never be sure of them. But you have set up the sword to
lead us, and therefore, I say you must respect it, you three.
You cannot forget it, any more than you can forget the
gods."

VII

FROM the shelter of the cedars they had an unobstructed
view of the valley below them, the deep, turgid brown of
the river distinct between bands of greenery. The bridge
at the foot of the hill on which they stood was barred by a
mass of fallen trees on the farther side, and steel sparkled fre
quently in the opposite copses.

"I have marked two vexilia," said Mago dolefully. "That

HANNO'S SWORD 69

would mean six hundred legionary cavalry, and there must
be four hundred or more auxiliaries."

"And we are a scant four hundred men," grunted Norgon.

"And an elephant," added Colchus with his wonted cyni
cism.

Hamilcar tugged savagely at his beard.

"A crossing we must make or else turn about and set our
backs to the sea and slay as many Romans as we may,"
growled the Captain of Gaulish infantry.

"The legions are not up yet." Mago attempted encour
agement. "And if we could once get an arrow-shot beyond
those fellows over there we would be sure of gaining Lucania.
Fd cross to the Tyrrhenian shore, and — "

"You might as well talk of crossing to the Punic shore,"
sneered Colchus.

But Norgon shook himself from the contemplative mood
which had possessed him, and broke in upon the Greek.

"I have a thought, friends. At sea when we sight an
enemy we close him to ram or board, unless he be too numer
ous. In that case, we endeavor to divide his ships, so that we
may contrive to fall upon one division with a chance of con
quering it. Now, here before us, as Mago has said, the
Romans are twice as strong as we, and every moment that
passes brings their supports nearer. If we are to pass the
river we must pass at once."

"Hannibal, himself, could not be more inspired !" ex
claimed Colchus sarcastically. "But I could have said as
much in six words."

The sailor went on without noticing the interruption:

"And to pass the river we must trick the Romans into one
place — and then come upon them unawares from another
direction."

"That is a wise thought," endorsed Hamilcar.

"Colchus spoke more truly than he intended, perhaps,"
observed Mago, with a sour look at the Greek. "That is
the kind of plan Hannibal used again and again. He would

70 QR£Y

trick the Romans to mass their strength in one position, and
after he had succeeded, outflank them and throw us of the
horse upon their rear. Whoo ! Many a legion have I
broken that way."

"Yes, yes," agreed Hamilcar, "on a level plain, all else be
ing equal, I would back your Numidians, Mago, against
twice, yes, and thrice, their number of Roman horse."

"But we are on one side of a river and the Romans on the
other," pointed out Colchus. "Also, I see no level plain."

"If we can beat the Romans on the level we can beat them
on the hillsides," declared Norgon. "How if we divided our
forces thus ? I will take Mago and his Numidians and the
bulk of the Iberians, and ride downstream around the next
bend. In the meantime, Hamilcar and the rest, with Baraka
and his elephant, must attack the bridge. And while they
are occupying the Romans' attention, we will surprise a cross
ing and come down upon the Romans in flank and rear."

"It will be a pretty task for Hamilcar and his men," com
mented Colchus. "I am disposed to accompany Norgon."

"You are not necessary to me," answered Hamilcar
brusquely. "Leave me a score of your slingers, and I will be
content."

But Mago looked worried.

"You will have only some six score men, Hamilcar," ob
jected the little cavalry officer.

"What of the elephant ?" gibed Colchus.

"The elephant will be worth more in this affair than all
the rest of us," replied Hamilcar. "Go on, Norgon. You
need have no fears for us. We will develop an attack that
will draw every Roman within five stadia of the bridge. To
horse, Mago."

"Perhaps I should stay here," said Norgon uncertainly.
"On my ship I always knew where I should stand in a fight,
but ashore — "

"You should stay where you will be safest," advised Col
chus. "But I was forgetting the sword. You have no occa
sion to be concerned."

HAN NO'S SWORD 7*

Mago snorted contemptuously, and Hamilcar answered the
sailor:

"We who remain here cannot clinch the victory, old friend.
That is for Mago's column, and the commander's place is
where the victory is to be won."

Norgon stared down at the tumbling brown water, and
shivered slightly.

"After all, I am to fight in my own element," he said.
"But I could never abide fresh water. There is no kindliness
to it."

"Trust to the sword," said Hamilcar lightly. "It will
lead you safe."

VIII

HAMILCAR allowed an ample time for Norgon to reach the
cart-track which paralleled the river, and then sent forward
his slingers and a half-dozen Cretan archers he had dug from
the wineshops of Crotone along with a few score mingled
spearmen and sworders, Carthaginian heavy infantry, Gauls,
Iberians, Libyans. The slingers, from the river bank, em
ployed their long-range slings, casting leaden balls at the
enemy on the hill-slopes, while the archers raked the ap
proaches to the bridge. Few as the missile-troops were, the
viciousness of their attack and the boldness with which they
descended to the river bank completely distracted the atten
tion of the Romans, who rapidly concentrated at the bridge
head, even dismounting a portion of their Legionary cavalry
in preparation to meet the anticipated attempt to force a
passage.

Several bow-shot distant, in the shelter of a clump of
trees, Hamilcar formed up his handful of dismounted infan
try, less than a hundred in all, but hardened soldiers to a
man, typical of the disciplined mercenaries who were dreaded
by the most veteran Roman legions. In advance of them
he stationed the elephant, with Baraka mounted on the
beast's back. And a fearsome sight was the Big One, arrayed
in his battle-armor, frontlet of plate mail covering skull and

72

trunk, padded saddlecloth hanging from his flanks, with
sheets of chain mail pendant from the howdah on his back,
and sheltering his vitals. Baraka, perched on the beast's
neck, wore a light shirt of chain mail and a peaked helmet;
but the only weapon he carried was the ankus with which he
guided his charge. In the howdah were four of the Cretan
bowmen.

Hamilcar waited until he judged his missile-troops were
likely to reveal their weakness, and shouted to Baraka to
rush the bridge with the elephant. The ankus tickled the
beast's tough hide, his master's voice urged him on, and the
Big One lumbered down the road in the midst of a cloud of
dust that might have been stirred by a thousand men.
Simultaneously, the slingers abandoned their long-range wea
pons, and took to the clumsier slings they employed for
short-range work, casting stones the size of a clinched fist
with a drive that knocked armored men completely off their
feet.

The Romans, dazed by the cloud of dust and the hail of
missiles falling on the bridge-head, closed the gaps in their
ranks, and formed closely across the road, just in time to
receive the terrible impact of the Big One's charge. A score
of men were crushed under the immense feet or hurled to de
struction by the flailing trunk; the Cretan archers aimed
their shafts right and left. But the Romans refused to re
treat. They saw their comrades ground to red paste, and
stepped resolutely into the ranks to meet a similar fate.

In the midst of this boiling uproar Hamilcar launched his
infantry across the shattered barricade at the bridge end.
He crossed the structure unopposed, but notwithstanding
their terror of the elephant, the Romans came at him reso
lutely on horseback and afoot, so that he was obliged to shift
his formation to a compact circle, which wheeled slowly
from right to left, with the effect of presenting the attacking
troops with a constantly varied succession of opponents.

The Carthaginians' weapons were soon red to shaft and
hilt, their shields were hacked and marred, their numbers

HANNO'S SWORD 73

were reduced a third. Baraka succored them twice, charging
through and through their attackers and giving them a mo
mentary interval of rest. But presently he was obliged to
protect himself, for the Romans leaped from their horses and
ran at the Big One's legs, reckless of death if they might
hamstring a leg or thrust a spear up under the protecting
drapery of the saddlecloth and the flaps of chain mail. And
Hamilcar knew that he had exhausted his opportunity. A
frenzied howl from Baraka sent the Big One crashing into
the woods out of reach of pricks and slashes, and the little
band of mercenaries were left to hold their own.

The dismounted Romans drew back, and a column of
heavy Legionary cavalry was formed to ride down the Car
thaginians. The Roman trumpeter had his instrument to
his lips when another trumpet blew in the woods above the
bridge. Baraka's howl became a yell of exultation. Hoofs
thundered in the tree-aisles, and the Numidian horse burst
into the open, riding compactly in squadrons, behind them
Colchus's Iberians, casting middle-size pebbles from the
waist-slings, which* they used for ordinary work. The Big
One rushed into view again, trumpeting madly in response to
the blasts of the Numidians.

"Forward," cried Hamilcar, and his infantry trudged out
from the bridge-head, shields braced and chins up, doing
their share anew to break the Roman array.

At the edge of the trees presently, where the road wound
away out of sight into the purple hills, Hamilcar caught up
with Colchus, who was wiping his sword on a handful of
grass.

"Mago has ridden on after them," said the Greek casually.
"It was best to disperse them while we had the chance."

"But Norgon ?" panted Hamilcar. "Where — "

Colchus held out the sword in his hand at arm's length and
surveyed it critically, and Hamilcar recognized the familiar
grey sheen of the steel.

"It was too bad about Norgon," answered Colchus. "Too
bad ! He couldn't swim."

74

"Not swim !"

"It was the river, you see. We had to cross where it was
deep and swift, and he — "

Hamilcar's hand fastened on his own sword.

"Did you try to save him ?" he demanded.

"Try ?" The Greek's eyebrows rose. "Why not ?
Only think, my friend ! Mago was there, and several hun
dred others. It would have looked well, would it not, had I
seemed loath to haul Norgon out ? The truth is that I and
one of my Iberians and three Numidians went after him,
but he slipped from his horse's back, and when we finally
reached him he was dead."

Hamilcar's hand opened and shut spasmodically on the hilt
of his red blade.

"You were — first ?"

"I was, as witness this sword." And with satisfaction he
proceeded: "It is evident that I was destined to possess it.
Why, Norgon had it scarcely a day, eh ? Ah, yes, it was
intended for me."

"Take care, lest it leave you as swiftly as it left Norgon,"
snarled Hamilcar.

"No, no," retorted Colchus cheerfully. "I intend to be
careful. It is all very well to have a wizard sword, but I
don't mean to place too heavy a burden on it. The gods
will do much for a man, but they expect him to do some
thing to save his own head. Now, Norgon was a good cup-
mate and a fine companion, but — "

"He was my friend," warned Hamilcar. "Let that suf
fice."

"And a shipman. Therefore he could not swim," added
the Greek mockingly. "But he is dead, so — Zeus be his
friend ! We live. I hold the sword. Do you recall our
compact ?"

Hamilcar tugged hard at his beard.

"I do," he answered slowly. "I am one to keep a com
pact. You are chief. What will you have of me ?"

Colchus slapped the grey sword into its sheath.

HANNO'S SWORD 75

"First, a disposition to believe well of a fortunate friend
who could not have helped his fortune had he wished to,
which I am bound to say — But my topic is not congenial
to you. Very good ! I suggest, then, that we collect our
men and as many Roman horses as possible, and press on
after Mago. The road is open to Lucania, but the man who
does not seize his opportunity when it comes — Ah, the
forbidden topic again ! Suppose that we agree simply to
continue after Mago ? It was his recommendation."

IX

THE girl fled from the gate in a flutter of ragged brown gar
ments, white limbs glancing in the sunshine. They had a
brief glimpse of her traversing the vineyard, but the olive
trees beyond swallowed her completely. The same drowsy
stillness settled again upon the white farm buildings and dusty
fields.

Colchus caressed his chin and straightened in his saddle.

"A fat place," he observed. "It would be well if we halted
here. There should be meat for the men and grain for the
horses — yes, even hay in plenty for Baraka's pet."

But Mago offered a decided negative.

"Hascar's troop that I sent ahead report the road clear. It
would be foolish to delay. By tomorrow we shall be in the
Etrurian foothills."

"Why hurry so ?" complained Colchus petulantly.

He peered back along the jogging ranks of the Numidians,
thinned by weeks of marching and fighting, privation and
illness, to where the Big One ambled sedately like a mound
in motion under his thick coating of dust. And behind the
Big One lay the quiet farmstead and the orchards in which
the girl had vanished so soon as they had noticed her. Not
a human soul was in sight of the column. Above on either
hand rose the Sabine hills, lush-green foliage streaked with
the brown bars of the tilled fields or the petalled loveliness of
orchards. But nowhere was there sign of man, woman, or

76

child; no, not so much as the smoke of a deserted hearth.
The fertile country was vacant, abandoned, although the sud
den discovery of the girl lurking under cover of the farm-
gate might be taken to prove the contrary.

"That cohort we whipped by Tiber must be a long day's
march rearward. There's not a Roman nearer than they."

"Ah, but these Sabine folk are unfriendly," answered
Hamilcar, who had ridden up from his motley company of
mounted infantry. "This is very different from Apulia,
where the villages clamored to feed us."

"Perhaps," Colchus agreed reluctantly. "But that girl —
A Hamadryad, by Aphrodite ! She gave me a look."

"How often have we urged you to leave women alone ?"
growled Hamilcar.

Mago, being a Numidian half-breed, rumbled a comment
into his woolly beard that was less polite.

Colchus only grinned at both of them, and deliberately
shortened his reins.

"It is not I, my friends, but they ! There is something
about a Greek — "

Hamilcar smothered a curse.

"I beseech you to use your wits, for your own sake, if not
for the rest of us. That is all. Remember, you are chief."

"And it is a pity if a chief can not have a few privileges,"
retorted the Greek.

"For example, turning aside from the road to try the knife
of some chance-met Sabine girl," remarked Mago.

"Why not ?" Colchus grinned broader than ever. "By
Hercules, this is a dull life ! Ride, fight, ride, fight ! Now,
I caught a glint in that wench's eye that augured — "

"Are you going after her ?" demanded Hamilcar.

"I am, my Hamilcar. And before you have travelled an
other four stadia I shall be up with you again, richer in ex
perience and happier in spirit."

"Let him go," advised Mago. "It is his own responsi
bility."

HANNO'S SWORD 77

"But he is chief," persisted Hamilcar. "And I, for one,
have felt eyes watching us all day from the hillsides."

"What Sabine farmer can harm me ?" laughed Colchus.

He touched the hilt of the grey sword.

"Have I been behindhand when the steel was singing,
friends ? Say, who led in every bicker since we broke out of
Bruttium ? Whose blade has been the most merciless ?
Whose head has been oftenest imperilled ? Eh ?"

"It is true," Hamilcar admitted unwillingly. "By the
anger of Moloch, I never saw a man pass through such on
falls as he, Mago ! And no steel could touch him."

"Humph," grunted Mago. "Hanno died, and so did
Norgon."

"I shall not encounter an elephant on a Sabine farm nor
attempt to swim a river," replied Colchus, reining out of
the column. "Continue, friends. I shall be with you again
before you have tired of discussing my recklessness."

He touched spurs to his horse, and cantered down the long
line of Numidians and mounted infantry, waved to Baraka
high up behind the Big One's flopping ears, and rounded a
curve in the white track of the road.

"Talk to a jackdaw, talk to a Greek," commented Mago.

"He is a good fool," answered Hamilcar. "Let us be fair.
We have had brave leadership from him."

"No man is a good leader who turns aside from his com
rades to pursue an enemy's woman," denied Mago.

They rode on then in silence, the trees beside the way whis
pering gently in the breeze, the sun striking warm on the
ribbon of the road, the country becoming wilder and more
mountainous as they advanced, for they were heading into
the ridge of the Apennines which separated Sabinia from
Etruria. No longer were there cultivated fields and orchards
on either hand, and the few habitations they saw were herd's
cottages high up in the hills. Hamilcar lost the sense of be
ing under the constant observation of unseen eyes, but his
uneasiness increased, and at a crossroads where the track they

78 QR£Y

followed forked in different directions he came to an abrupt
halt.

"It may be that I am as much of a fool as Colchus," he
announced; "but I cannot continue without him. Suffer me
to take a troop of your men, Mago, and I will fetch him
back."

The little Numidian squinted his yellow eyes toward the
tail of the column.

"We have gone a good four stadia," he returned. "He
should be up with us. But if aught has happened to him it
is his own fault. Let him go, Hamilcar."

"You forget the sword," the Carthaginian reminded him.

"It would be well for you if you forgot the sword,"
snapped Mago. "You do not require a sword to be chief."

"Hanno said the sword should lead us safe from Italy,"
insisted Hamilcar. "And it is a good blade. You have seen
it flash in the thick of the slaughter."

"And I saw Colchus take it from the hand of a drowned
man," replied Mago. "Oh, well, have your way ! You are
as crazy as Colchus. I will wait here for you. It is as good
a place as any — and if we are delayed we must make a
night march."

"I will not delay you long," promised Hamilcar.

The Carthaginian ordered the rear troop of Numidians to
wheel out of the column, and led the way back along the
road at a gallop; but as he reached the Big One he moderated
his pace, and hailed Baraka, sitting astride the thick neck,
disgruntled and sullen.

"Did you mark what became of Colchus after he left us ?"

"I looked back once," answered Baraka. "He was riding
into the yard of that farm we passed."

"Then he was not trapped on the road," Hamilcar mut
tered to himself, and spurred his horse on.

Two score men, riding with loose reins, made short work
of the distance the column had travelled so slowly. The
white buildings of the farm loomed through the roadside
trees, and at the entrance gate the hoofmarks of the Greek's

HANNO'S SWORD 79

horse were plainly cut on a plot of turf. Hamilcar fol
lowed the hoofmarks to the house door, where Colchus ap
peared to have dismounted; but the hoofmarks continued
on around the house into a rear yard rimmed by barns and
sheds. The door of one barn stood open, and a Numidian
officer, who rode beside Hamilcar, pointed to the print of
sandals on the earthen sill — and close by was the unmis
takable imprint of a naked foot, a woman's foot, slender in
the heel.

"Ho, Colchus !" called Hamilcar.

No answer.

"Colchus ! It is we, your comrades !"

And again:

"Colchus ! Hamilcar calls."

The Numidians stirred restlessly, and Hamilcar vaulted
down from his saddle.

"It is strange," he muttered, and peered into the barn's
shadowy interior.

The sunlight dappled the earth floor a spear's length inside
the door; beyond that was darkness, a vista of wooden-
wheeled wains, ox-yokes, tools, heaps of fodder, and over
head a tangle of beams. From one of the beams dangled a
dark object, which swayed and turned continually — a sack ?
Hamilcar asked himself. A slab of salt meat ? No, too
large.

The Carthaginian stepped across the sill, and started vio
lently. The hanging object was a man.

"A file of troopers hither !" he called harshly. "Quick !"

The Numidians scrambled from their horses, and pelted in
after him, bows bent, javelins poised. But all they saw was
a dead man, swaying and turning at the end of a rope that
hung from a roof beam.

"Make a light," ordered Hamilcar.

An underofficer took touchwood from a brass firebox,
blew it alight and kindled a wisp of hay, and as the flame
torched it was reflected dully on a grey shaft embedded in
the dead man's chest.

8o

"Higher," commanded Hamilcar. "Lift the flame higher.
Yes, it is he."

For the light fell on the face of Colchus, a face distorted
and askew, black with congested blood, dragged over to one
side by the loop cast around his neck, the knot tight under
one livid ear. Deep in the Greek's chest was buried the grey
sword of Hanno.

"Slain by his own sword !" exclaimed Hamilcar. "But
no, that is not possible. He came in — with the girl — "
The Carthaginian stooped to the floor — "yes, here is her
footprint again — he came in with her — they dropped a
loop from above — she guided him into it. Gods ! What
an end. To be strangled to death in a Sabine barn for a
farm wench ! A wench who lured him to his death. And
they buried his own sword in his breast as he kicked at the
rope ! Buried it in mockery."

Hamilcar put his hand to the hilt and sought to draw it
forth, but the blade was caught between the ribs and it re
sisted him. He desisted for a moment and stepped back.

"Sword, sword," he said, "you have much to answer for.
Three men who have carried you are dead — and the Gods
only know how many owners died before them ! Good luck,
they call you. I wonder ! Yes, I think I will leave you."

One of the Numidians nudged his elbow, suggesting that
they set the farmstead alight, but Hamilcar shook his head.

"It would be a signal to every Roman officer in these hills.
No, no, Colchus deserves no vengeance, for if ever a man was
his own Nemesis it was he."

The Carthaginian started to leave the barn, but in the
door he turned for a last look at the sword. Its grey blade
stood out a span from the Greek's body, and it seemed to
shiver and throb with life in the twilit gloom as the dead
man twisted and swayed. A mighty itch to possess it, to feel
the cool strength of its hilt in his palm, assailed him.

"Why should I fear it ?" he whispered to himself. "I am
not a fool like Colchus. Moreover, Hanno said that it
should lead us — some of us — out of Italy. We swore that

HANNO'S SWORD 81

he who carried it should be chief — and I alone am left of
the three who took the oath ! By Tanit, this is fate !
Sword, you are mine."

He retraced his steps, gripped the edge of the Greek's
corselet in his left hand and with this leverage drew the
dripping blade from the corpse's chest. Free of the dead
man, it swung feather-light in his grasp, keen, trenchant,
dully threatening.

Hamilcar wiped it on a fold of Colchus's kilt, then slashed
through the rope that had hung the Greek.

"Bury him in the yard," he ordered the Numidians as what
had been Colchus sagged to the floor. "Not deep, for we
have far to ride tonight. There is death in these hills."

THE wind that swept the pass was edged with the freezing
breath of the glaciers that scarred the Alpine peaks. The
Iberians shivered as they took their stance, and mechanically
slung their missiles at the dwarfed figures of the Romans
bobbing amongst the boulders a bowshot distant. Hamilcar
shivered, too, for all the plundered cloak of fur which
wrapped his shoulders; and he felt the quivers which
wrenched the bony frame of his horse whenever the icy blast
yelled off the mountains and funneled through the depres
sion of the pass.

A short cast above the line his men had strung from cliff
to cliff, Baraka's Big One teetered monotonously in the lee
of a rock, more clumsy than ever in full war panoply and
the huge bullshide boots which Baraka had fashioned so
laboriously to protect the elephant's corns from the sharp
rocks and icy stretches of the mountains that shut off Italy
from Gaul.

Around an elbow of the pass hoofs rattled, and Mago gal
loped into view, his black features grey with the cold.

"Brrrrr, what a land !" he chattered, reining in beside the
Carthaginian. "If we might only have found a ship !"

82 QR£Y

"What use to weep for the unattainable ?" answered
Hamilcar. "If we had made for the coast the legions would
have gathered us in long ago. How do you progress up
ahead?"

"111. There is a walled village in a bowl beneath the crest
of the pass. I must have the Big One to crack it open for us."

Hamilcar frowned at the Romans edging steadily forward
upon the tenuous line of Iberians.

"These border legions are stout fellows," he said. "I can
not hold them unaided."

"True, oh, Hamilcar," assented the Numidian; "but if we
do not carry this village we are hemmed between it and these
Romans — and my people report it is stuffed with light
troops."

"It is the truth," agreed Hamilcar. "Take Baraka with
you. I will retire slowly as far as that elbow in front of us.
There I will leave a dozen to keep the legionaries in check,
and with the rest hasten after you. We take the village or
we perish. And it will be hard if after all the perils we have
survived some of us do not escape."

"There are not so many of us even to perish," replied Mago
grimly, eyeing the wide intervals in the ranks of the slingers.
"Well, may the gods have their will of us !"

And he rode away to accost Baraka, and lead the Big One
up the rough slope of the pass, while Hamilcar turned his
attention to the withdrawal of the Iberians as unostenta
tiously as possible.

Two stadia beyond the elbow the pass widened into a val
ley, and in the midst of this the village was situated, a huddle
of stone huts, the roof timbers anchored with boulders against
the fury of the mountain gales, a crude stone wall surround
ing it that would have crumbled at a blow from a catapult,
but a formidable obstacle to a handful of troops without
siege equipment. Mago was an experienced campaigner,
however, and he had grappled with the situation before his
chief arrived.

The Big One, rumbling and grumbling, was backed off a

HANNO'S SWORD 83

couple of bowshots from the village gate; Baraka touched him
with the ankus, shrilled in his grotesque ear; and the im
mense beast lowered his armored head and lumbered into a
run which was amazingly fast. The Roman auxiliaries on
the walls showered the elephant with darts, but his armature
protected him from all save surface scratches, and these only
stimulated his rage. Squealing viciously, he thundered into
the gate, burst its leaves asunder and pranced along the
village street, trunk brandished against all who stood in his
way. After him poured the Numidians, with the survivors
of the column's infantry, and Hamilcar and the Iberians
bringing up the rear.

The garrison took to the houses, defending themselves des
perately, but whenever Mago or Hamilcar had difficulty in
forcing an entrance they called the Big One from his parad
ing and bade him shove in a wall, usually with the result that
the inmates were buried beneath a heap of the loosely mor
tared stones and the heavy roof. The auxiliaries lacked the
dare-all spirit of legionaries, and soon crumbled into flight,
until the valley was covered with men struggling in groups
and individually.

One company of the auxiliaries made for the upper mouth
of the pass, a precipitous gut in the cliffs, and Baraka sent
the Big One careering after them. The elephant by now
was in a fiendish temper. He had been on short rations
for several days; he disliked the cold of high altitudes; he
objected violently to the boots which Baraka had put on his
feet; and he had slain enough men to have a craving for
bloodshed. So he kept after the fugitives relentlessly, tramp
ling on them or throwing them against the rocks whenever
he overtook them.

As he neared the entrance of the pass Baraka perceived
the difficulty of managing the great beast in its constricted
space, and endeavored to turn him from his prey. But the
Big One refused to be amenable. Despite the goading of
the ankus and his master's shrill adjurations he lumbered on
into the gut. An arrow found a crack in the scales which

84

protected his trunk, and the pain of the wound drove him
frantic. His squeals resounded between the beetling cliffs.
He caught a man in his trunk and beat him to a pulp against
a boulder, then lurched on, eyes flaming, entirely heedless of
the narrowing path, intent on destroying the enemies in
front of him. One after another, he trampled them; but
two men reached a section of the pass where the walls were
so close that they could scarcely squeeze through shoulder to
shoulder as they ran.

"Stop, my Big One," bleated Baraka. "Here is no path
for you. Turn back, Great Baby of my heart ! Turn be
fore — "

But the elephant plunged into the straitened gut at a gal
lop. His tough hide chafed against the rock walls, tearing
down a succession of loosened boulders and icicles that re
doubled his rage. Heaving and straining, he wedged him
self farther in the narrow way, and when Baraka prodded him
with the ankus, begging him to back he trumpeted savagely,
tossed up his trunk and caught the Captain of the Elephants
in its supple grasp. A moment he dangled his master be
fore his little red eyes as if gloating over the murder of one
he held responsible for his plight. Then he hurled the un
fortunate man after the two auxiliaries who had eluded him,
and Baraka became a red splotch against the cliffs.

Hamilcar and Mago, called into the pass by the first of the
Numidians to respond to the Big One's frenzied trumpetings,
realized the danger to the whole column if the way continued
blocked.

"We must slay him," decreed the Carthaginian.

"Easy to say," retorted Mago, cautiously investigating the
elephant's restless hind feet. "But his vitals are at the other
end."

"Hew him apart, if necessary," replied Hamilcar impa
tiently. "I care not how many men we lose. He stands be
tween us and Gaul, no less than did your village."

Five men died or were mauled before the spears of Numid
ians and the swords of Carthaginians, Iberians and Gauls

HANNO'S SWORD 85

finally severed the spine of the Big One's mighty bulk, and
it was possible, as Hamilcar had said, to hew him apart and
so make room for the column to pass. But even when this
had been done there was trouble with the horses, which shied
at the bloody rocks and monstrous chunks of flesh and limbs.
The pursuing legionary infantry were at the mouth of the
defile by the time the column was moving again, and in its
winding, precipitous depths there was scant opportunity for
the accurate, long-range slinging of the Iberians which had
been the most effective resistance the fugitives could offer
against superior numbers. The rearguard of the Car
thaginian troops and the van of the pursuers were crossing
swords as the last of the Numidians passed the scattered rem
nants of the Big One.

Mago came to Hamilcar with a worried look on his face.

"I would try to ride the Romans down if the footing was
better and our horses were not so worn," he said. "But my
men feel the cold too much to be on their mettle."

"This is work for the Iberians and Gauls," replied Hamil
car. "Rest easy. I will see to it."

The Numidian tarried, his pride hurt because the situation
was beyond him.

"If it was a field for horse — " he began, and Hamilcar
clapped him on the shoulder.

"This is a field for infantry. You have done your part.
Now we shall do ours. Push on over the crest, and we will
overtake you as soon as we have given the Romans a belly
ful."

"But you ?" protested Mago. "You are chief, Hamilcar.
You must not risk yourself."

"Each to his destiny," retorted Hamilcar. "Cheer up,
man. In this defile the Romans can never overtake us. We
will hold them until nightfall, then slip away and rejoin
you. Tomorrow we shall be looking down on the plains of
Gaul."

"May Tanit guide it so !" exclaimed the Numidian.

Hamilcar laughed, balancing the grey sword in his hand.

86 QKCY

ffTbts guides us !" he answered. "From end to end of
Italy it has carried us. Will it fail us now ? I think not !"

But Mago called back over his shoulder:

"I trust in you, not the sword ! It is an evil friend, that
sword, too thirsty, too changeable. All it seeks is the
slaughter."

"So that it slays our enemies, why should we care ?" re
plied Hamilcar. "It is like a woman, a lustful maid, ever
hungry, never content. Feed its wants, and it will be faith
ful to you."

But as he picked his way amongst the weary Gauls and
Iberians of the rearguard he found himself thinking other
wise.

"So Colchus talked — yes, and Norgon said much the
same. But neither of them did it serve so long as me.
Phaugh, I am an old woman from the cold and hunger and
toil of the fighting ! A sword is a stout friend to the man
who wields it with skill, no more. When my arm falters,
my head will fall. Yet no steel has touched me since I drew
it from the Greek's breast — and today I require its help
more than ever."

He circled it around his head, and the keen purr of the
blade became a hiss, strident, menacing.

"That is not a happy song you sing, sword," he muttered.
"It bodes ill — for some one. Ho, men, let me through !
Way for Hamilcar ! Grey Maiden will make good the rear."

They stood aside readily enough, courage spurred afresh
by the presence of the commander they believed invincible
and the sword whose fabulous powers were debated at every
campfire. Hamilcar took his place in the rear rank of four
men, stepping over the body of a dead Carthaginian infantry
man who had been impaled by a Roman pilum. On his
right hand an Iberian and a Gaul fought with long, straight
swords similar to his own; on his left a Carthaginian cut and
thrust with a shorter broadsword not unlike the weapons of
the Roman legionaries, who crowded into the pass behind
their convex shields. The Romans' pikes were gone; the

Hamilcar made the grey sword hiss in air, and strode out in front
of the Carthaginians

88 QR£Y

fighting was hand-to-hand, sword to sword, the individual
skill and strength of the Carthaginian mercenaries against the
disciplined effort of the legionaries.

And if the numbers were unequal, Hamilcar, himself, was
equal to a century. He was not content to meet the Roman
advance. At times, when the pressure of the cohort jam
ming the mouth of the pass became so severe as to threaten
to burst the fragile opposing line like a stream in freshet, he
would spring forward alone, the grey sword darting and
leaping, swooping and hovering, agleam with dreadful life
and hunger, slashing gaps in the Roman ranks that slowed
the steady tread of the legionaries and gave his men time to
regain their wind.

Step by step he contested the pass while the sun sank lower
and the bitter cold made the fighters shiver in their sweat.
The Romans reached the narrowest section, where the Big
One had stuck, just short of twilight, and here for some rea
son they seemed inclined to rest, nor was Hamilcar loath to
seize the chance to ease his aching sword arm. Beyond this
point the pass widened again, so that a dozen men might
tramp it abreast, and he knew that on such ground the
Romans, with their undrained reserves, would plow ahead al
most regardless of the resistance his battered fighters might
attempt. So he was prepared for the fiercest struggle of the
day when the ordered "tramp-tramp-tramp-clank-clank-
clank" of the legionaries echoed up the defile.

"To the last, men," he said sternly. "There will be horses
for you above — and tomorrow, remember, the plains of
Gaul !"

A tired cheer answered him, and they dressed their shields
as the Romans loomed in the twilight, a brazen double file.

Hamilcar made the grey sword hiss in air, and strode out
in front of the Carthaginians.

"Two at a time !" he exclaimed. "This is a simple task
for you, Grey Maiden. What are two Romans to you, who
have slain them by cohorts ?"

One of the two he cut in the neck below the helmet-strap;

HANNO'S SWORD 89

the other sank, pierced through the groin. He stepped for
ward to receive the next pair, sword raised to strike. But
something swished overhead. He looked up, startled, as a
net dropped around his shoulders. A roar burst from his
lips, and he drove the sword into the armpit of a Roman in
the second rank ; but when he strove to lift his arm the heavy
cloth-strips of the net entangled the blade, one of his own
men stumbled against him in the confusion and he plunged
to his knees. The next moment he was down on the rocks,
and the Romans rolled over him. The hobnailed sandals
stamped into his flesh, the press of bodies suffocated him.
He could feel the life ebbing from him under the cruel bat
tering of human mallets, but he had no sense of resentment,
only an amused wonder.

"No steel could touch me ! Ho, Norgon^ I — "

XI

THE Tribune Paulus Sulpicius looked up from his seat by the
campfire and dropped the stylus with which he was scratch
ing his brief report.

"What success, Valentius ?" he asked the Centurion.

"The Numidians escaped. They had too long a start for
us. But most of the others we slew."

"That is well," said the Tribune approvingly. "Your
name goes with this to the Consul, my Valentius. I am
pleased with you. Ha, you have a new sword !"

He pointed to the long, grey blade that the Centurion ex
tended for inspection.

"I took it from the body of the officer who withstood us
so long in the pass, him we overcame with the net you bade
us knot out of the strips of our cloaks. It is a fine piece of
steel."

"A soldier's weapon," agreed the Tribune, handling it lov
ingly. "You have earned it, and if I have my way you shall
swing it next at the head of your cohort. He was a gallant
enemy, that Carthaginian. His sword should be a lucky

90

one. May it carve you a path to command of a legion !"

The Centurion received back the sword.

"We took some prisoners," he answered. "For informa
tion. They say it is a magic sword. Who carries it cannot
be slain by steel."

"Such superstition is Punic, my Valentius," the Tribune re
turned indulgently. "Bethink you, he who carried it last is
dead, and how he came by his death matters little. Man
lives while the gods indulge him. When they will he dies."

Chapter IV
THE LAST LEGION

To the Senator Anicius Manlius Severinus Boetim, Consular,
at Rome, from G. Flavins Domitianus, Count of the Bonon-
ian Shore, these by favor of the holy Modiiis:

IT IS a voice from the outer darkness which speaks to you
by this pen, oh, Anicius. One encompassed by the
myriads of the Barbarians, his humble talents devoted to
the crude policies of a savage King, may well hesitate to
address you who have sat in the curule chair and borne the
highest dignity beneath the purple. Yet I am emboldened
by two facts: the one the memories, always treasured, of
those early days on the slopes of the Pincian when we stole
moments from the Lives of the Saints to sample the splendors
of the Mantuan, the other, my recollection of your curiosity
concerning all events applying to the philosophy of life.
You have been kind enough to express gratitude for my com
ments on the Christianizing of my Prankish employers —
no, then, I will put pride aside, be honest and call them
masters — and so it may be that you will discover profit in
this narrative of an experience which has racked my soul to
its foundations and stirred me to doubt the very basis of the
faith the priests would bid us believe shall mould the world
anew.

91

92

I know that you will not judge me hastily, friend of my
youth, who have refused to forget our pagan forefathers
simply because they were pagan. Must Cicero and Lucretius
be condemned, to Hell fire for the crime of having lived
before the revelation of Christ ? No, no ! Or if it be so,
then, I'll choose to go with them. Rather the Old Gods of
our ancestors, my Anicius, than a Christian God of injus
tice. And who shall say that Rome has had justice of
Christ ? Calamity after calamity, until a Barbarian sits in
the Palace of the Csesars, and the Conscript Fathers are be
come the puppets of his will ! We are scourged for the
sins of our ancestors, say the priests. Oh, God of any faith,
what mockery ! What virtues do these Barbarian converts
possess that our forefathers lacked ? What claim upon
divine assistance have the heathen Saxons, who ravage to
day what once was Roman — and Christian — Britain ?
And this brings me* belatedly to the subject of my tale, a
truly marvellous tale, my Anicius, stimulating to Roman
pride, crying aloud for Roman pity. But be yourself the
judge. I will tell it as it happened, thus:

Two days since the optio commanding the Julius Tower
by the quay summoned me by messenger, saying a ship of
the Sea-wolves was heading into port. It is seldom, indeed,
that any ship puts into Bononia,1 which, in former times,
even after it had lost the name of Gesoriacum, was thronged
with traders, but is now, as it were, a castra mare on the far
edge of the world. Here even the Barbarians stay their feet,
for beyond is only the restless desert of the Western Ocean.
But at intervals these Sea-wolves, wildest of all the Bar
barians, appear along the neighboring shores and inspire with
terror the ruthless Franks, who, to say truth, are as agitated
by such visitations as are your peasants of Latium or Etruria
by the raids of the Lombards against whom the Goths pro
tect them. My task, as you know, is to safeguard this coast,
and to conciliate my pride the Franks permit me to retain
the old title which was established when the evacuation of

1 Boulogne.

rowed into the port very awkwardly and in silence

94

Britain did away with the Count of the Saxon Shore, who
had been charged with the prevention of piracy. Yes, and
not alone do they yield me my traditional office, but the
troops under my command, in name at least, are the same
bodies that Honorius stationed here, if we are to credit the
Notitia of his reign, in which are inscribed the garrisons of
the several frontiers.

So I ordered out the Ninth Alan Cohort, in which, I do
assure you, oh, Anicius, there are no less than a score and
a half of Alans and two Roman Centurions, not to speak of
one who is Roman on the mother's side, and the rank and
file stout Franks, who worship God very fervently because
King Clovis bade them to. And with my "Alans" I marched
down to the quay to receive the Sea-wolves as became them.
But imagine my amazement when these strangers, instead
of showering us with arrows from a distance and saluting us
with indecent cries and gestures, rowed into the port very
awkwardly and in silence, quite as though their doing so was
a natural thing to be expected. I was so dumbfounded that
they were within javelin-throw and inside the range of the
tower catapult before I took thought to my responsibility
and hailed them to yield to us. I did not think it likely they
would understand me, so in the same breath I shouted to my
archers to bend their bows and had the catapult discharged.
Of course, the stone flew over their heads, but it made a
mighty splash which rocked their vessel near to swamping
it, whereupon arose one amongst them dressed like myself,
and replied to me in our Latin tongue ! Yes, as good Latin
as you shall hear any day in the Forum, albeit with some
thing of a throaty accent, and a slurring of final syllables.

"Are you Barbarians here ?" he hailed. "Is this the way
to receive a Roman officer in a Roman port ?"

"Roman officer !" I gasped. "Who ever heard of a Roman
officer in a longship of the Sea-wolves ?"

He threw back his ragged, old brown cloak very haughtily,
and he might have been Csesar when he answered:

"I asked a question."

95

"So you did," I agreed sarcastically. "And I will answer
it. I am Domitianus, Count of the Bonanian Shore. You
are within my jurisdiction, and all men, save King Clovis,
himself, must hold obedience to me therein. Now, do you
answer me !"

But he shook his head, puzzled.

"King Clovis — who is he ?"

I gaped at him.

"Whence do you come who can ask such a question ?" I
stammered. "Who are you ?"

He signed to his men to pull up by the quay, and they
managed it with the strong awkwardness I had observed be
fore. As they drew alongside, I saw, too, that they were a
mixed lot: some of them dressed like my own legionaries in
tattered leather jerkins and rusty lorica, others hairy and
clad in skins and bright-colored woollen cloths. The
armored men had the look of drilled troops; the hairy fellows
were as wild a set of untamed Barbarians as you can find any
where north of Gaul. Their leader stepped ashore without
a word from me, and not until then did he answer my last
questions.

"I am Quintus Arrius Marbonius, Senator of Viroconion l
and legate of the Sixth Legion, Victrix"

He said it, my Anicius, as you might say: "At what hour
do we dine ?" I stared at him a long time. It was one of
my two Roman Centurions who replied to him.

"But — but there is no Sixth Legion !"

"Why, no," I assented. "The Sixth was struck off ages
ago. It is not on the rolls. It was destroyed — that is,
it disappeared nigh a century of years past."

The stranger smiled quietly. He was a man of middle
height, a true Roman in face and build, stocky, with a huge
chest and broad shoulders, and a nose and chin like those on
the busts of the old Csesars in the Capitol. He was young,
compared to us; but his hair was flecked with grey, and
there were deep lines in his cheeks, which were decently

1 Wroxeter.

96 QRCY

shaven. His armor was clean and polished, but he had no
sword, only a light staff in his hand. I know men, O
Anicius, and this man, I perceived at once, was one to be de
pended on. So much, to be sure, any one must have seen
from the way his crew kept their eyes on his face, and jumped
to obey his slightest gesture. Yes, a soldier.

"The Sixth may not be on your rolls," he said, "yet I can
assure you it — " a spasm wrenched his features — "it is
here."

He waved one hand toward the longship nuzzling the
shattered platform of the quay — these Franks keep nothing
in repair; a stone the frost works loose is always left to fall.

"For all that century of years," he went on, "it fought
honorably to maintain the repute it brought into Britain.
Victorious it was called, and victorious it died — except the
few of us you see here. Viroconion was its tomb."

"Where is this Viroconion ?" I asked, striving to collect
my wits.

Now, at mention of this name one of the crew of the long-
ship leaped ashore beside his leader, and burst into a torrent
of words in a tongue which sounded to me like rain spitting
in the chimney, strutting back and forth and waving his
arms in the fashion of a third-rate actor. He was an absurd
person, short in stature, bandy-legged, with a large head and
a tangled red beard and long, tangled red hair.

"Is this man crazed with suffering ?" I appealed to Mar-
bonius.

He smiled again.

"Oh, no, he is a poet. That is a song he has made: 'The
Death-Song of the White Town in the Valley.' It is the
song of the end of Viroconion, the fairest of the cities of
Britain."

"Of Britain!"! gasped.

But he had not heeded me. Turning to the bandy-legged
man, he spoke to him gently, touched him on the arm —
and the flow of words was stopped. The poet bowed his
head, and dropped back into the longship.

me ^Asr HCGIOK 97

"Llywarch Hen mourns the death of his master, Prince
Kyndylan," continued Marbonius. "To him it is not so
much the end of the White Town, but the passing of Kyn-
dylan the Fair, which must be sung." His lips crinkled in a
satirical grimace. "But his poet's mind can not resist the
overwhelming tragedy of the death of a town. A city is
greater than a man, even though that man be a Prince/*

I discovered my wits at last.

"These are strange words that you speak," I said sternly.
"First, it is of a Legion long forgotten — which you say is
newly destroyed. Then it is of the end of a city. Next,
it is of a Prince's death. You have much to render account
for. You claim to be a Roman ?"

He favored me a second time with his satirical grimace.

"All freeborn men in the Empire are citizens of Rome,"
he answered. "But I am descended from a family that
earned the privilege under the Republic !"

"There are older families," I retorted, no less sternly; "and
the title is not so honorable as it once was."

His hand went to where his swordhilt should have been.

"No true Roman would say that," he said.

"There is no such thing as a true Roman," I replied.
"Whence do you come, stranger from the sea, that you
should be as ignorant of the world as though you were not
of it ?"

There came upon his face a smile most piteously mournful.

"Count of the Bononian Shore, I begin to believe that Brit
ain must be a different world," he said.

"Do you mean to claim that you are come hither from
Britain ?" I exclaimed.

"I do," he declared proudly. "I am a Roman Briton, a
Senator of Viroconion — or of what was Viroconion, for all
is gone, Cenric the West Saxon has levelled the walls, the
house roofs gap to the sky, the churches are dens for the
wolf. Yes, it is as Llynwarch Hen has sung: 'Its halls are
without life, without fire, without song.' "

"But man, you speak madness," I cried. "No one has

98 QR£Y

come out of Britain since my grandfather's time ! It is a
waste inhabited by the Northern pirates. For three genera
tions the Saxons have desolated it."

"Not all of it," he corrected me. "I grant you they have
ravished the fairest sections of the land, but in the West a
line of cities have kept the Roman tradition, and behind them
the Silurian l Mountains and the rough moors of Damnonia 2
have provided shelter for many more folk of the British tribes
that never took kindly to Roman ways. We are ill-assorted,
we of the cities and the mountains, but we have one in
terest in common in the enmity of the Saxons and their
allies. Until now we have kept our freedom, but the fall
of Viroconion means the end of all else — unless the Emperor
send us aid."

It was incredible, my Anicius, but I believed him im
plicitly. And around us had collected a knot of my cen
turions and optios who could understand Latin, and I saw
on their faces the same expression of awe mingled with con
sternation. Even the Barbarians, Alans and Franks, compre
hended the dramaturgy of the moment.

"There is no Emperor," I said.

"No Emperor ?" he repeated.

"Not in the West," I amended. "In Constantinople, yes.
But he has no interest in Britain. All he asks is to be able
to hold his own against the Persians and the Scythians."

"But you ? You are Roman ! And I see other Roman
faces. Your soldiers have Roman discipline, wear Roman
dress. This town — " His eye caught the broken coping of
the quay, and he shook his head slightly — "No, that is not
Roman, not what we Romans of Britain call Roman."

His glance roved to the cohort's standard, and his fea
tures lighted eagerly.

"But you carry an Eagle !" he protested.

"Yes, we carry an Eagle," I assented sadly, "and it is true,
O man from another world, that certain of us, myself, a few

1 Welsh — really South Welsh.

2 Cornwall.

me ^Asr j^ecio^ 99

others, may claim Roman citizenship. It is true that Rome
still exists, true that the Senate meets in the Capitol, true that
each year Consuls are elected for Western as well as Eastern
Empire. It is true that this cohort, and others, some, not
many, keep up the Roman discipline. It is true that the
Prankish King, Clovis, gives employment to many of us
Romans who served in Gaul before he conquered it. True,
also, that Christ is worshipped in the temples of Gaul as He
was before the last Emperor died in Rome. It is true, as I
said, that Rome still exists — but Rome is dead. Theodoric
the Goth is King of Italy. Clovis the Frank is King of Gaul.
We Romans are their men. They rule, not we."

"I do not understand," he said dumbly. "Surely, the
Legions — "

I cut him short. This was dangerous ground. Already,
we had discussed openly in presence of the Barbarians sub
jects best kept for such intimate communications as this, my
Anicius.

"There is much you do not understand," I answered.
"Yet if you will be guided by my advice all shall be made
plain to you."

He sensed a hidden meaning in my interruption, and his
glance shifted keenly from my face to the others surround
ing us: a couple of dark, thick-browed Romans, the rest
towering, bearded Barbarians.

"You are wise," he conceded. "This place is public for
discussion. If my men might have food and wine — "

"They shall have full rations," I promised. "And if you
will be my guest I will endeavor to prove that however un
worthy may be our station we Romans are still capable of
appreciating a brave man, especially when he happens to be
a Roman."

He bowed as became a Senator, draping his cloak toga-
wise across his armor.

"I am honored, Count of the Bononian Shore. I had been
cast down, but you — "

"There is no reason for you to be aught but cast down," I

ioo

interposed hastily. "Your plight is a disgrace to all Romans,
and there is little enough I can do for you. But come."

We posted sentries on the quay to keep the rabble from
the longship, and after I had given orders for food to be pro
vided the Britons and Marbonius had instructed them briefly,
he rode with me up to my quarters in the Prcetorium above
the town. We said little on the way. My own thoughts
were bitter, and my companion seemed to be occupied in
studying the sights of the town. I have described it all to
you before, O Anicius, and you tell me it is much like your
Rome of today: grass sprouting betwixt the paving for lack
of cart-wheels, two people where once were three; priests,
priests, priests, monks, monks, monks, our Gauls — or your
Romans — scurrying meekly about such business as fortune
affords them, and the Barbarians in the background, sucking
up the taxes. Somewhat of this I explained to Marbonius,
and he heard me, tight-lipped.

"I begin to understand," he said as we dismounted in the
court of the Prcetorium. "Your Franks are in some ways the
same as our Saxons. Both are Barbarians. But there is this
difference — and it is a wide one: your Franks are Christians
like the rest of you, they ask only the right to rule and deal
gently with Gaul and Roman — "

"Oh, they are kind masters !" I admitted. "Kinder than
we deserve, if the truth be known. But what irks, and must
ever irk, is that they are masters, in our place."

There was a guard of Gaulish cavalry, cataphracti, the best
ala in my command, and they turned out for me as I rode
into the Prsetorium, gigantic mailed riders on tall mailed
horses, a spectacle to move a soldier's heart. I glimpsed the
flash in the Briton's eye, and asked him if he would inspect
the guard.

"Gladly," he said, then hesitated. "But no, I have no
sword."

"You do not require a sword," I replied.

But he would not cross the courtyard with me.

"I can not inspect soldiers," he insisted. "For I sold my

THC JCAS? JCSGIOK ioi

sword. It is not fitting that your men should be paraded
for me."

"By all the Saints, you are a queer fellow !" I protested.
"And they are paraded for me, not for you. But I am more
interested in hearing your story than in arguing with you.
We will dismiss the guard, if you please, and try a skin of
Coan wine."

It was that you sent me, O Anicius, beautiful, vibrant
stuff, vastly different from the muddy juice they call wine
in Gaul. With a drink or two of it under my belt I feel my
self expanding, gliding back across the years. I hear the old
Legions stamping by, the whine of the catapults at Jeru
salem, the thundering hoofs across the Catalaunian Plain the
day Attila's Huns were hammered to defeat ! Mars knows,
it is no Christian feeling ! And much the same was the in
fluence it exerted on this waif from another world, this chip
from the rim of the whirlpool where Roman and Barbarian,
Christian and heathen, struggle for God knows what.

Marbonius quaffed his goblet with an echo of my sigh of
satisfaction.

"This is what Horace sang of, eh ? I turn to him when
my ears grow weary of the mouthings and posturings of
Llywarch Hen. But I suppose all poets are the same if you
must meet them- in the flesh. Q. Flaccus drank beyond his
due, you know."

"What do you know of Horace ?" I queried, amused.

He quoted promptly:

What have the fatal years not brought of ill ?
Our fathers' age, than their sires9 not so good,
Bred ^ls ev'n worse than they; a brood
We'll leave that's viler still

"Is that apt to the times ? By what you say, it should
be. St. Alban be my witness, it's the pith and whole of
Britain's plight !"

I ignored the pathos of his last remark in my astonishment
at the sonorous ease with which he had fitted in that quota-

102

tion — you remember it, my Anicius ? The Sixth Ode of
the Third Book, "Of Rome's Degeneracy." Five hundred
years ago Horace wrote it to chide a Rome that was just em
barking upon her last climb to greatness. And today it is
more apposite than ever ! After all, what is Time ?

"But where do you learn Horace in Britain, you who, by
your own story, must battle with the heathen ?"

"We are not savages," he returned, with a hint of mock
ery. "At Corinium l there is a good Academy — and some
of the priests refuse to despise true learning. But I forgot,
I doubt if Corinium lasts much longer, and in any case,
there will be no pupils for the Academy. Yes, the day draws
near when the Britons must subsist upon the poetry and
learning of Llywarch Hen and his kind. We have shot
our bolt. And if you can give me no hope of aid from
Rome, why, I am a fool for my pains, and might better have
used the chance I bought to escape to Deva 2 or Isca Silurum.3
They will need soldiers in either place. Here you have plenty
— of a sort."

"They are not Roman soldiers, remember that," I answered
without losing my temper. "Rome is a name, nothing more.
Roman citizenship is an honor so empty the Barbarians do
not envy it."

He fixed me with glowing eyes. They were not Roman
eyes. Somewhere in his past there must have been a fair
Barbarian mother, for they shone brightly blue against the
tanned swarthiness of his skin.

"Yet you say there is an Emperor in Constantinople ?
And the Senate still meets ? And each year you have a new
Consul ?"

"For the Emperor in Constantinople," I replied, shrugging
my shoulders, "take my advice and forget him. He pre
tends, and Theodoric in Rome, and Clovis here in Gaul,
permit him to pretend — yes, pretend with him — that he

1 Cirencester.

2 Chester.

3 Caerleon-on-Usk.

me JCAST JCCGIOI^ 103

is Roman Emperor of the world. There is naught said of
it, no homage asked or given. It is simply that some of
the old forms are kept up, because the Barbarians like them.
Rome dies, but there is a majesty in the name. It is like a
great man's statue, cold to the touch, warm to the imagina
tion. Some day the Barbarians will weary of Roman forms
and ceremonies, or perhaps other Barbarians will come in
and conquer the Goths and the Franks as they conquered
us, and then the last vestige of Rome will vanish. It may
be the Capitol will be torn stone from stone, and Rome be
come like that city — what was it you called it ? — the
White City — "

"Viroconion !"

The name was music on his lips.

"Ah, no ! God in heaven, no ! You do not realize what
you say. You have not seen all that your fathers had labored
for for four hundred years hacked and battered into shape
less ruin by Barbarians beside whom these Franks of yours
are cultured philosophers. What have you, here in Gaul,
suffered compared with us ? Nothing ! With us it is free
dom or slavery, victory or extirpation. With you it is no
more than new masters, rude, perhaps, but kindly, and
Christians who reverence the Blessed Jesus. I tell you there
is no comparison. You may bemoan a loss in trade, hurt
pride that the Roman name has only the echo of its former
potence. But we — we have seen two-thirds of our land,
our finest cities, harried and wrecked, so that where a hundred
families might find food the Saxons themselves cannot live
without stealing from our settlements or harrying the main
land."

I could not gainsay the man, my Anicius. Indeed, he in
spired me with a humbleness I am unaccustomed to.

"Tell me," I asked, "how it is that Britain is so shut off
from intercourse ? It has been a common saying for two
men's lives that it was become no more than the haunt of the
Saxon pirates."

"You have answered your own question, Count of the

Bononian Shore," he said, with his wry smile. "We have
been driven off the sea, and our harbors sealed by the swarms
of pirate craft. Hemmed in ashore by the waves of Bar
barians that have pushed us farther and farther into the
West, we have had no opportunity to pass oversea. Twice
in my day it was tried, but each time the men who attempted
it were captured by the pirates who blockade the coasts."

"And this side of the water there has been no fleet to check
them in so long a time that I doubt if there are shipwrights
living who could contrive the framework of a trireme !" I
growled.

"The Barbarians !" exclaimed Marbonius. "The world
goes to pieces because of them. I was taught in school that
they poured out of some unknown reservoir of men in the
dim recesses of the East, one tribe jostling the other, fighting
and brawling their way toward a more comfortable home
land."

"You were taught correctly," I assented sourly. "It is so.
I think it will always be so. In the long run, no doubt,
they will possess the earth. But here is no occasion to dis
cuss philosophy, my friend — No, I must hear from you
some explanation of the extraordinary claims you make.
You are Legate, you said, of the Sixth Legion, and — "

"And that is the truth," he cut me off stiffly.

"But think, man ! The Sixth, Victrix !"

I reached over and snapped open the chest in which I keep
my scrolls of records and accounts, amongst others a fair copy
of that Notitia, which some Emperor — I fancy Honorius —
had prepared in imitation of the Antonines to show the dis
tribution of the Empire's defenses. And I unrolled it to the
sheet which noted the defenses of Britain.

"See," I urged him. "This list is a century old. It con
cerns the last days of the Empire, as an Empire. And here
you have the Sixth, Victrix — at Eburacum * and on the
Wall."

"Precisely," replied Marbonius smoothly. "At Eburacum

1 York.

rue jCAsr jcecio^ 105

and on the Wall. Mostly, it was on the Wall. The Sixth
and a few cohorts of auxiliaries held the Wall long enough
to give our people in the South a chance to stand off the
Saxons before the Picts broke through from the North, and
made things worse. That was in my great-grandfather's
time."

"But to get back to the Sixth," I reminded him. "You
will note, it is shown here. And that is its last showing in
the records. It disappears."

"What of the other Legions that were then in Britain ?"
he asked.

"The Second (Augusta] was brought back to Gaul; and
I think it broke up in one of the civil wars, oh, a generation
past. The Twentieth (Valeria Victrix) was brought over
by Stilicho more than a hundred years ago to help against
Alaric; old men have told me it was cut to pieces in some
battle in Pannonia. Most of the old Legions are gone.
You'll find one here and there, generally in the East, but it's
not usual. Most of the old Numeri and auxiliary cohorts
and alee have disappeared, too. Everything is different.
The world is different — so why should soldiers expect that
there should be no change in an Army, which really is no
longer an Army, but a band of Barbarian mercenaries ?"

He let me rant to a finish.

"You are bitter," he said quietly. "It will be easier, then,
for you to appreciate my bitterness. The Sixth was not de
stroyed. It was used up over and over again, its ranks filled,
first, with our North Britains, afterwards with men of every
tribe and city of those that professed to follow Roman ways.
My grandfather became a Tribune in it; my father was
Legate, appointed by the Senates of the Border Cities, which
bore the brunt of its upkeep; I was appointed to succeed him
after he died."

His armor clashed as he straightened involuntarily.

"It was not such a Legion as it was when it came to Brit
ain. The year the storm broke, I have been told, it num
bered scarce a thousand men — "

io6 QRCY

"All the Legions were under-strength in those days," I
struck in. "It was one of Constantine's cursed policies."

"That I do not know," replied Marbonius: "but I do know
that we filled its ranks in the beginning to five thousand
men, and in my time of command it could muster three
thousand with the Eagles. Men, mind you ! Soldiers ! As
good heavy infantry as ever stepped. Not mountaineers
like Llywarch Hen and his friends. They are good light
troops, unsteady under pressure, but savage fighters and stout
bowmen and fleet of foot. But when it came to the shock,
to meeting the heathens' Shield-wall, my legionaries and the
cataphracti of the Icenian Horse always bore the brunt. To
the very last ! The very last ! They — they are under the
stones of Viroconion. Cenric won no slaves of us. He ad
mitted it to me. Not a bad man, that heathen, a fighter.
He offered to adopt me, but I — I preferred to buy my lib
erty after I learned his ambition, thinking that I might gain
succor for our folk from Rome."

I poured more wine. A man always talks better with a
wet tongue.

"Tell me," I invited him. "I am interested in your posi
tion, Briton. I have told you, and I tell you again, that I
doubt if I can serve you at all — or any other man ! But
tell me, and if I can see my way to further your mission be
sure I will. Only — tell all, as one soldier tells another.
Otherwise, I cannot judge fairly of the matter."

"You mean: tell the truth," he retorted in his quiet way,
almost jeering. "But what is truth to one man is a lie to
another. If you find cause to doubt anything I say, ask me
more of it. I will explain. For I am honest with you in
that I must win help for our people in Britain. I must I
Else the end is in view. And I cannot believe that Rome
will let us come to that. When the Emperor Anthemius
was beset by the Barbarians, long after Honorius had bidden
us shift for ourselves, we sent twelve thousand men to help
him, two strong Legions, although we could ill spare them.

rue .CAST jcecioi^ 107

Give us those twelve thousand back, and we will fling the
Barbarians into the sea !"

He drained his replenished cup.

"Well, that is boasting, and pushes me nowhere. I will
tell my story."

"Wait," I said. "Before you begin your story instruct me
further how matters stand in Britain. What is the division
betwixt you and the Barbarians ?"

"A soldier's question," he approved, and dipped a finger
in the wine-lees. "Here is the island's shape. It is much
longer than it is wide, you see, and broadest in the south.
The eastern and southern parts, where were our richest cities,
facing towards Gaul and the Saxon Shore, are low-lying and
fertile. Here it is that the Saxons, and other Barbarians, who
sometimes fight with them and sometimes assist them, have
settled. The midlands are forests and fens. Today they
are a debatable ground, the best barrier we have against the
Barbarians, who must travel their wastes to reach our borders.

"We who hold true to Rome are forced back into this
block of mountainous country, which is thrust out into the
sea betwixt Britain and Ireland — "

"And what of Ireland ?" I asked. "A monk I met lately
told me it was the richest land in the world."

Marbonius laughed shortly.

"He was Irish ? He would. It is a land of strong men
and lovely dark women and the best breed of horses I know;
but except for piety it has no riches — nor ever had. It is
so poor that the heathen avoid it, for all it affords them is
hard blows. Yet I would not seem to decry it unduly, for
the Irish send us many fine soldiers and horses which are bet
ter mounts for the catapbracti than the ponies of our hill
country, although in recent years the fleets of the Barbarians
have interfered to curtail the traffic to and fro.

"They are akin, the Irish, to Llywarch Hen's folk, the true
Britons, and much like them, quarrelsome and forever fall
ing apart. That is the reason why the Barbarians have had

the better of us. If it were not for the cities all Britain
would have been conquered long ago. It is we Romans — "
his shoulders squared; his chin lifted aggressively — "who
make resistance possible, for we keep up the Roman walls
and Roman discipline.

"You see, here, in this map I have made, how a river — it
is called Sabrina x — runs across more than half of the east
ern face of our mountainous country. But South of it,
across its estuary, is the land of Damnonia, not so moun
tainous, but very rugged, and the dwellers therein are little
squat men, who fight cleverly from ambush. When they are
not fighting they are mining tin. There are no cities worth
mention in Damnonia, only the bare moors and the little
miners who never strike a foe, except from cover. But alone
with us of the Border Cities and the Britons of the Silurian
mountains they have kept free of the Barbarian yoke."

"What of these Border Cities ?" I asked.

"I was coming to them. First, below Sabrina, is Aquas
Sulis,2 which once was famous through the Empire for its
baths. Ah, I see you have heard of it ! Great woods inter
pose betwixt it and the South coasts, where the Saxons are
established. These, its walls and the valor of our legionaries
have maintained it, but it must fall very soon, for it is iso
lated from the other cities of the border and is not sufficiently
close to Damnonia to draw strength from the Little Folk of
the Tin. Beyond it, and West of Sabrina, lies Isca Silurum,
which in the beginning was called Castra Legionum, because
it was the fortress of the Second Legion in the old days
when the mountain Britons were as untamed as the Saxons
who now oppress them. It is the mightiest fortress in Brit
ain. When it falls, Rome has fallen."

"Rome has fallen," I gibed.

His head snapped back.

"Not in Britain," he retorted. "So long as a Roman city
is free the Roman spirit shall endure."

1 The Severn,
^ Bath,

109

"I am well rebuked," I acknowledged. "Proceed — last
of the Romans."

He signed himself with the Cross.

"The Blessed Virgin avert so dire a consequence ! Let me
but have twelve thousand men, trained troops, heavy infan
try and catapbracti, and we will clear Britain of the Bar
barians — and make a new Rome."

"Constantine made a new Rome — in the East," I re
turned. "When he did that he threw the West away."

"It is in the West that -we hold out," exclaimed Marbo-
nius. "In the westernmost corner of the westernmost Ro
man land. Perhaps that is a symbol, Count of the Bononian
Shore."

"We talk of military matters, not of symbols," I reminded
him.

For, indeed, my Anicius, he made me ashamed, with his
steadfastness of belief. What is life without faith ? Yet
how regain a faith which has fled ? Tell me, have I put my
finger on the canker-worm which rotted the fibre of Rome's
greatness ? I wonder !

"True," he agreed. "But the symbols Rome left us are
the backbone of our defense, for they remind us daily of the
heritage of our fathers."

"We talk a different language, here," I said roughly. "Get
on with your cities. Isca Silurum was the last. And the
next?"

He sighed.

"Yes, yes, Rome is not the same," he admitted sadly. "A
broken coping to the quay, and a Roman officer no longer be
lieves in Roman destiny !"

"Now you talk sense," I growled. "Rome is no more."

For a while he said nothing, dabbling his finger in the wine
spilt on the table.

"When I found the sword I thought it was a sign from
God," he muttered finally; "my men all said it would bring
a happy turn to our fortune. And but for it I should not be
here."

no QRCY

"What sword is this ?" I asked him. "Of what do you
speak ?"

Marbonius roused himself.

"The sword ? The sword is my story. But let me finish
what I began. I told you of Isca Silurum. Well, we cross
Sabrina again and come to Corinium, and north a way, also
on the east bank, lies Glevum.1 They are stately cities, as
Roman as Rome, our fathers claimed. After Glevum the
country northward becomes marshy along Sabrina's course,
and there are no more cities on the Border until you reach
Viroconion. But I forget." His face clouded. "Viro-
conion is a ruin. But while it stood it was the middle bul
wark of the Border, like the handle of a door. Southward,
Isca Silurum was one hinge; northward, Deva was the other."

"And those are all your cities ?"

"All those on the Border. And they are the fairest we
have left. Deva, like Isca Silurum, was a legionary fortress.
The Fourteenth, Gemina Martia, built it. Only Isca is
stronger today. As for those beyond the Border, from Reg-
num 2 on the South coast to Eburacum under the shadow of
the wall, they are heaps of stone."

"This wall," I said. "Is it — "

He shuddered.

"I saw it once. We had driven a foray far North to
teach the Barbarians a lesson; if you strike at them vigor
ously they respect you the more. And one day at sunset we
rode out of a forest onto a bare hillside, and across a valley
was a line of towers that rose and dipped, lifted and sank,
with a grey thread of wall between, from horizon's end to
horizon's end. And nowhere a sign of life, not so much as a
plume of smoke ! Blessed Saints, what desolation ! We
camped by one of the mile-castles that night, and I poked
this out of a heap of rubbish in the guardroom." He pointed
to his belt-buckle of tarnished silver, with the worn inscrip
tion: "LegVI." "My own Legion, you see. The castle was
in astonishingly good condition. Oh, the ramp was over-

1 Gloucester.

2 Chichester.

rue JCAST

grown with lichen, and bushes and even small trees sprouted
in the parapets; but it was defensible, as it stood. So was
most of the wall. My men found a shallow breach a mile or
two east, but we could have repaired it in a day. On one
tower was the wreckage of a catapult, the long casting-arm
propped above the battlements. All the Wall lacked, all it
ever lacked, was men to hold it. It — it made us very
sad, discouraged. We lost interest in our foray, after that.
The work seemed futile. Do you understand ? Here was
the wall which Hadrian had built for all time, and it had en
dured for all time; but as Horace said in that verse I quoted
you, our fathers had bred a vile brood of sons. Yes, Rome's
sons had failed her, not the brick and stone she had shaped
for her purpose."

"I understand," I assured him. "You are not the first
to nourish that thought."

He stared at me, half-disapproving.

"But it does not stir you to resentment !"

"Resentment !" I jeered. "What could I accomplish by
it ? What have you accomplished by it ?"

"I don't know," he acknowledged. "It is in God's provi
dence. When I had the sword — "

"God's providence ! Briton, you talk like a priest. And
what properties had this sword, which, as I remember, you
said you sold ? Why did you sell it, if it was so valuable ?"

He smiled gently, seeming to penetrate the pettiness of my
spleen.

"I sold it to come hither," he answered. "If my coming
secures help for my people the sword will have saved Britain.
Also, it bought — albeit without pledge — a truce for the
balance of the year, seeing that Viroconion cost Cenric so
many lives that he cannot afford to resume the war until
he has received reinforcements of Barbarians from overseas."

"A good price," I admitted. "If there was an Emperor
to turn the advantage to account for you. But we are stum
bling in the dark. Go on with your story."

His smile became melancholy.

"You give me scant encouragement. Well, for that you
are not to blame. And perhaps the sword has achieved all
it can for us. Surely, if it fights for Cenric as it fought for
me — But I talk at random. We will go back to the be
ginning of things.

"In the spring word came to us from the Fen Folk, who
dwell in the woodlands betwixt us and the Saxons, that Cen
ric would launch a great stroke against the Border Cities. I
was at Isca Silurum with the Sixth and several alae of horse,
and we had detachments of light troops out on the roads by
which the Barbarians might advance. Usually they come by
one of two ways: the old Middle Road up from what was
Londinium,1 direct toward Viroconion, or the South Road
which skirts the vast Wood of Anderida and strikes the Bor
der at Glevum, with byways toward Aquse Sulis and the
Damnonian Marches. The Middle Road is the most direct,
but they have more chance of surprising us when they come
from the South, so I was not surprised by a message from
Aquas that the Barbarians were reported landing under
Vectis.2

"There was a Council of Nobles, one of the curses of
Britain, legates from the cities and the different Kings and
Princes of the free tribes. The cities were for making me
Consul, with absolute powers; the Kings and Princes, as
always, were jealous of the cities and one another. The com
promise reached was the one employed on every similar occa
sion: I was named to command the cities' troops, and Kyn-
dylan, Prince of the Cornovians, was put forward by the
free tribes to command their contingents. 'There are more
of our men than of yours/ they said. And that is true —
But all their men are not worth two cohorts of Legionaries
when the Saxon Shield-wall must be broken.

"Again, I was for waiting before we went out to meet the
Barbarians, so that we might fight them on our own ground.
But Kyndylan and his friends cried that it would be cowardly

1 London.

2 Isle of Wight.

rne .CAST JteciOK 113

to permit the invaders to wreak more harm to the Border.
It was strong talk, and they won over with it the legates of
Aqua? and Corinium, who were most exposed to attack from
the South. And the consequence was that I was directed to
march South at once, seek the enemy and pursue them to
the sea. I had the Sixth, an ala of the Icenian Cataphracti,
a few troops of light-horse, Damnonians and Silurians, and
Kyndylan's Britons, javelin-men and archers, a valiant, dis
orderly mob."

"What did you do with them ?" I asked as he paused.

"Sent them on ahead. That was the safest use for them.
They were hungry to close with the Barbarians, and I knew
that if they met any considerable force of Saxons they would
be routed. In that case I expected to catch the enemy in the
confusion of pursuit, and smash them with my armored
troops. But matters fell out very differently.

"We marched by way of Aqux Sulis, and took the road
east over the hills to Cunetio,1 and then southeast through
very rough country to what used to be Calleva Atrebatum.2
The walls were standing; most of the houses were intact. A
city of ghosts. Just beyond it we encountered our first
Barbarians, a shipload or two, perhaps ten score men, plun
dering tombs along the wayside. I thought for a while they
must be the bait for an ambush, and I sent my mounted men
after them to spring whatever trap might have been laid for
us. But they were unsupported. We harried them unmer
cifully, and then retired at evening to a ruined villa on the
Calleva road, where we might rest behind walls. You can
never be too wary of these Barbarians; they are always cun
ning and resourceful — as I was soon to discover.

"Near this villa was a group of tombs in a little glade, with
a battered altar to the Genius Loci. The Barbarians had
tumbled the stone cap off one tomb, and I ordered a squad of
my Legionaries to lift it back into place. After all, it was a
Roman grave. An optio called to me that within the stone

1 Folly Farm, near Marlborough.

2 Silchester.

n4

casing was a leaden coffin, and I walked across the glade to
examine it. One of the Barbarians had sunk his axe into
the metal, and through the gash there was a grey gleam, al
most as if an eye winked up at us in the twilight. I was cu
rious. 'Who lies here ?' I inquired. A centurion pointed
his vitis at the inscription on the capstone: 'Decius Maxi-
mus, Prefect of Britannia Prima, and the Sword of his
Destiny/ 'Ha,' said I, 'let us have a look at this sword of
Decius !'

"The Legionaries pried off the leaden lid with their broad
swords, and there before us lay the dried fabric of a man in
extreme old age, white-haired, his armor scrolled and enam
elled, his helmet the work of a goldsmith. In his skeleton-
fingers was clutched a long, grey sword of a steel I have never
seen in any other weapon. I suppose the coffin was sealed
against dampness, which would account for the blade's be
ing rustless; but that was not the only peculiar characteristic
it had. Its surface was marked with a multitude of convo
luted lines and whorls, and graven in the metal were a series
of letters and symbols. There was a writing made of little
pictures; I do not know what that could be."

"Egyptian, very likely," I said.

"Very likely," he agreed. "I made out also several in
scriptions in Greek; one was 'The Grey Maid/ meaning the
sword, I think. Others were men's names or initials. There
was a Latin inscription: 'The Tribune Valentius Martius won
me from the Carthaginian/ And there were still more writ
ings strange to me. Many men had owned this sword. It
had a personal identity like a man — or a woman. You
could feel it, potent, sinister, a disturbing aliveness. 'Take
me,' it seemed to say. I reached down and detached it from
the dead hand of Decius Maximus, and it swung up with a
lithe, balanced grace, feather-light, as much a part of me as
the arm that wielded it.

" 'Blessed Saints, what a sword !' I exclaimed.

" 'It is a sign from God/ cried the centurion who had
showed me the inscription.

THC -CAST -CtfGIO^ 115

f< 'Yes, yes,' shouted the soldiers. 'The Legate has a sign
from God ! St. Alban sends him a sword of destiny !'

"It is not my custom to rob the dead, Count Domitianus;
but a voice outside myself bade me put to use what Decius
Maximus had long since ceased to need. A good sword is a
good sword — and it is never well to lose an opportunity to
encourage your men. There was a hard campaign in front
of us. The sword was a favorable omen."

"What did your priests say to it ?"

He grinned.

"The holy Bishop Rufinus cleansed the steel of any heathen
taint after we came to — But I am running too fast. I
told the soldiers I would take the sword, and they were clos
ing up the tomb again, when there was a thudding of hoofs
in the road, and a vexillation of the Batavians galloped up,
escorting a centurion from the Prefect of the garrison of
Aquas. He was a stout, puffy fellow, and commenced shout
ing to me while he was dismounting.

' 'Cenric is on the Middle Road — Uaxacona * has fallen
— at the gates of Viroconion — the Border is in flames !'

"He and his Batavians — of course, there wasn't a Batavian
in the lot ! I told him to be quiet, but the mischief was done.
My Legionaries went straight to their posts in the ranks, but
Kyndylan and his Britons were swirling around us like wild
men, yes, like the cattle the Barbarians drive with torches.
'We are betrayed !' 'Oh, our wives and children !' 'Back
to the Border !' And more nonsense of the same kind.

"Kyndylan struggled through the press to where I stood
beside the tomb with the grey sword in my hand. He was a
handsome man, with wavy hair, ruddy gold, and eyes as blue
as the summer sea, big of his body, too. He wore armor
like any Legionary, and because of that imagined he had done
all that was necessary in order to fight as we did. I could
never make him understand that without discipline and
training his men were helpless before the Saxon Shield-wall.

1 Oaken Gates.

n6 QKCY

They were brave, they had weapons ! What more could
they want ? Armor ? It was all right for some, perhaps,
but his mountaineers would lose their fleetness of foot if they
must carry heavy loricce and helmets and the Legionary's big
shield.

' 'What are you going to do ?' he shouted.

* 'Send on some light-horse to make certain the rascals we
just cut up do not tarry hereabouts, and with the remainder
of the column march back to Glevum.'

"The coolness of my voice disconcerted him, but he
pointed to a group of Legionaries kindling a fire.

' 'Have we time for that ?'

1 'To eat ?' I said. 'The men have marched for five days,
and some of them have fought hard this afternoon. They
will be fitter for food and rest.'

' 'You will not march at once ?' he shrieked.

' 'I will march in the morning.'

' 'But the Saxons are on the Border ! While we wait the
villages will fall to the torch.'

: 'Viroconion will hold Cenric from the back-country.
We could not stop the Barbarians from burning and slaying
in every place if we were camped tonight in the Middle
Road. In any case, tired troops must sleep.'
"He threw up his hands in anger.

' 'It is easily seen you have no folk outside the walls !
You men of the Cities are all alike. You think only of your
selves/

" 'I think only of Britain,' I answered him. 'We shall gain
nothing by wearing ourselves out. Let us take what rest we
require, and march as hard as we can. That way we will
make better time than if we fling ourselves at the road.'

' 'My people are not under your orders,' he fumed. 'They
will march with me tonight.'

"I did not argue with him. It is never worth while to
argue with an angry Briton. But I was not so sure as I had
been that my new sword was a sign from God or a benef
icent omen as I watched Kyndylan's yelping pack huddle

me J;AST

off on the back-track, ponies slipping their loads, chiefs shout
ing and gesticulating, Llywarch Hen and his brother-poets
chanting in the dust, and the common men eating whatever
they could lay their hands on.

"In the morning we followed them, and by noon their
stragglers were cumbering our column. We turned north
west by the road which leads to Corinium and Glevum, and
so crosses Sabrina for Magna 1 and the other cities in the
mountains. At Corinium Kyndylan was awaiting us, blust
ery and self-confident. He had marched the feet off most
of his men, but refused to admit he was wrong. With three
thousand of the stoutest he set forth again that night by the
river-path, boasting he would be in position to strike the
first band of Barbarians he encountered. The local Senate
had begged him to wait for me and the reinforcements I had
sent for, but he answered them as he had me. 'You have
your walls. My folks must rely upon our bodies to protect
them.' And it was true that every un walled house on the
east bank of Sabrina was given to the torch. The forum
of Corinium was surrendered to the refugees; they slept in
the churches and the Basilica; and the same conditions pre
vailed in Glevum and Aquae Sulis. A stream of fugitives
poured West by every road and foot-path. The old men
said it was the worst visitation of the heathen since Ratae2
and Lactodarum 3 and Bannaventa 4 and the other cities of
the Midlands were destroyed.

"But I was very hopeful that Cenric had played into our
hands. Instead of having to fight him on ground of his
choosing, out of touch with our bases, as the Council of Nota
bles had decided we should, his successful ruse to throw our
strength to the South actually had placed us in position to
give him battle on terms favorable to us. We had only to
select the proper moment, and then hurl him back into the
wilderness he had traversed, with the certainty that victory

1 Kenchester.

2 Leicester.

3 Towcester.

4 Norton.

n8

would enable us to slay or capture three-fourths of his men.

"I had no doubt of the ability of my disciplined men to
withstand the Saxon Shield-wall, and to destroy it, if they had
any assistance from the Britons. The way to meet these
Barbarians when they are fighting in a large host is to involve
them first with masses of light troops, and after they are
completely engaged attack them with heavy infantry, and
finally, send a substantial column of cataphracti against them.
By such tactics they can be shaken apart, and they are like
any troops after that happens: chopping-blocks for an in
telligent enemy.

"So I turned hopeful once more. The sword helped me.
The slim weight of the blade, its worn hilt so easy in the hand,
its balance so deft on the wrist, inspired me with confidence.
When I drew it from the sheath a current of energy surged
up my arm. The grey steel glinted with a soft fire that
seemed to murmur for the coolness of the blood-bath. Even
the soldiers noticed it. They called it 'Marbonius's grey
maiden,' and made up rude sayings about it. And after
wards they never hesitated to take the bloodiest path it carved
for them. It was as if it had a heart in it, almost, a cruel
and lustful heart, but yet a heart. Yes, and a keen brain.
Oh, very keen !"

"Did you follow after Kyndylan ?" I queried as he paused
for a draught of wine.

"That was what the Senators in Corinium wanted me to do.
'If Kyndylan runs into trouble you can support him,' they
said, 'and moreover, you will be a shield between the Bar
barians and the river villages.'

' 'Quite true,' I assented. 'And also, the Barbarians will
be sure to hear of my coming. No, Kyndylan must shift
for himself a while. Unless he is a very great fool he can
not come to serious harm. I intend to attack Cenric at my
pleasure, not his.' "

"You ran a certain risk in suffering your forces to be di
vided," I pointed out.

"Ah, but they were not my forces ! That was the diffi-

-CAST ££GIOK 119

culty. And I was determined to come down on the Bar
barians before they had any knowledge of my presence so
far North. You see, Cenric would naturally expect me to
have gone South in response to the lure he had set for that
very purpose. Of course, he would likewise expect me to
return as soon as I discovered the size of the band that had
landed under Vectius; but he could not be sure when that
would be. I had tidings at Corinium that already he had
invested Viroconion, wasting all the land east and north of
it toward Deva. His attention would be diverted South by
the approach of Kyndylan's Britons, and my plan was to
cross Sabrina and march to Viroconion by the mountain road
which connects Isca Silurum with Deva. On this road I
would be wholly out of reach of the invaders; they could not
possibly hear of me; and when I came within striking dis
tance I would send word to Kyndylan, arrange to have him
launch his attack upon Cenric and throw in my troops the
moment the Barbarians were completely involved with the
Britons. As I have said, such tactics are the best to employ
against the Saxons."

"Your numbers were limited, then ?" I asked. "You could
not procure additional troops ?"

"Legionaries ? No. There were a few cohorts in garrison
in the Border Cities, but the Barbarians move with celerity,
and there was always the chance that they might withdraw
from before Viroconion. All I could do was to call for
another ala of cataphracti from Isca; there were two more at
Deva, but Deva covers an immense stretch of the Border, and
its garrison requires a considerable force of horse to make it
good. Suppose the Barbarians from the North had descended
upon us when we were engaged with Cenric ? That is al
ways our nightmare, to be attacked upon two fronts. No,
no, I dare not take a man from any point except Isca, and
there they could spare but the one ala — and that meant
stripping the South to the danger-point. I had to rely on
what men were with me."

His face worked.

120 (JRCY

"If only Kyndylan had acted a man's part, instead of a
fretful boy's !"

"Ah, he failed you ?"

"I am coming to that. I marched West by way of Gle-
vum, crossed Sabrina, headed on West to Magna, and there
turned into the North Road to Deva. At Bravonium,1 half
way to Viroconion, fugitives from East of the river told us
of a victory Kyndylan had won in the swampy lands on that
bank. He had trapped a large raiding party, and killed them
to a man. The Britons were mad with joy. 'King Arthur
is come again !' they shouted. 'Kyndylan is Arthur re
born !' One poet in the forum was singing a genealogical
song to prove that Arthur's blood ran in Kyndylan's veins.
I daresay it was true."

"Who was this King ?" I inquired curiously.

"The only King the Britons ever had whom you would call
a soldier. While he lived he held the heathen at bay. But
he did it by our — by Roman — methods. He was more
Roman than Briton, at that. My father told me he won
his battles with our Legionaries and catapbracti. Anyway,
the Britons in Bravonium were howling themselves hoarse in
the delusion that Kyndylan was Arthur — or Arthur was
Kyndylan — whichever you please. And frankly, I was
worried. I knew what a hot-head Kyndylan was. Give
him a taste of victory, and there might be no stopping him.
So I did what otherwise I should not have done. I left word
for the ala from Isca to push after me, and marched my men
on from Bravonium as fast as they could travel. They never
complained, and in twelve days of foot-pounding the phy
sicians treated three — for bellyaches."

"A good record," I approved.

"I was proud of them. They — they — But you are a
soldier. You know. I shall never command such men
again. Humph ! This wine is good, but it stings the throat.
Humph ! Well, my worst forebodings were realized. We
made a night-march, but I called a halt after midnight, for

1 Leintwardine.

me JCAST

the leader who enters battle with tired men is beaten before
the first pilum is cast. We took the road again at dawn, and
I sent forward the light horse to feel the country and estab
lish communication with Kyndylan. At the second miliary
southwest of Viroconion a patrol intercepted us with news
that Kyndylan had attacked Cenric, and was stiffly engaged
on the east bank of Sabrina.

"My heart sank, but I ordered the Legion to accelerate their
pace and galloped on myself with the cataphracti. As we
rode out of the hills above the ford the spectacle of the battle
was unfolded beneath us, the valley slopes green with trees
and crops, the city a white oval in the midst of its belt of
gardens, and just across the brown stream an immense swirl
of men, creeping closer and closer toward the South Gate.
It was plain the Barbarians had the upper hand. I could
trace the great wedge of Saxon shields, the tall figures of
thanes and churls looming above the squat Britons; Kyndy-
lan's folk were fighting in the disarray they seemed unable
to forget, and a fringe of wounded and poltroons extended as
far as the^ city gate, which stood open.

"A centurion of the Damnonians joined me at the ford.
He said that Kyndylan had crossed the river earlier in the
morning, intending to fight his way into town. That fox,
Cenric, had thrust out a small body to oppose the crossing;
the Saxons had been driven back, and with that their entire
host had feigned panic. Of course, it was too much for
Kyndylan's Britons. They had broken their ranks, and
poured after the fleeing invaders, who had promptly reformed
a Shield-wall and faced around to annihilate the pursuit. A
trick older than my sword ! While I watched, the defense
of the Britons disintegrated, and they fled like so many sheep
for the open gate.

"St. Alban assoil me if there was ever such foolishness !
In the gateway a few of the garrison strove to pull the leaves
together and raise the drawbridge over the moat, but the
first of Kyndylan's folk to arrive chased them away. And
the boiling throng eddied nearer with every slash of the

122

Saxon swords. The Britons were so demoralized that the
Saxons abandoned their formation, and the Shield-wall split
up into innumerable companies, each fighting on its own
account, but all driving headlong for that open gate beyond
which lay the loot of Viroconion.

"Blessed Saviour, it was disaster ! Disaster such as I had
anticipated for Cenric. Here were my Briton allies de
stroyed, and Viroconion all but taken. And if Viroconion
fell like this how should we be able to maintain the Border ?
Which City would fall next ? I surveyed the thousands of
the Barbarians, looked at the few hundred horse I had avail
able and calculated the effectiveness of the Sixth, tramping
through the dust a mile or more in the rear. I might not
even wait for the Legionaries. If the city was to be saved, it
must be saved immediately. Its one hope was the flexible
might of my mailed horsemen.

"We trotted down to the river, and were in the ford before
we were spied by a handful of loitering Saxon churls who had
been plundering Kyndylan's dead. They screamed a warn
ing, but those open gates were so close now that the main at
tack of the Barbarians plunged ahead until the blasts of our
trumpets gave warning of the charge. Then the rearmost
Saxons turned and framed a ragged Shield-wall, while mid
way of their mass men milled in sudden confusion, some ad
dressing themselves toward the routed Britons, others dis
posed to confront us. Clean through them we drove, and
the troopers of the light horse supported us with a hail of
arrows that staggered them further.

"But they were warriors, those Barbarians. Cenric cried
on a band to continue for the gate, and hastily rallied the
rest to face us when we returned to the charge. It was not
so easy the second time. They were ready for us, their dense
ranks heedless of the blinding drift of arrows from our bow
men. We struck them as powerfully as before, but the head
of our column crumpled up, and the Saxons swarmed around
us as they had around the Britons, flinging themselves at the
cataphracti from every side, hacking with their axes, hewing

123

with their swords, hauling troopers from the saddles with
their bare hands. It was my sword put us through. Its
grey blade was like a lightning-flash in the summer sky. It
seemed to fight of its own accord. I swung it, guarded with
it; but its sureness was uncanny, yes, more than human.
Thane after thane clashed to earth under its strokes. Cen-
ric, himself, I cut through his shoulder-plates. And so we
reeled out of the enemy's ranks, leaving a tenth of our num
ber behind us, and spurred after the Barbarians who assailed
the gate.

"These fellows saw us coming, and decided to go else
where. Nor did I seek to stay them. I was content with
our achievement, and reined in my horse at the edge of the
moat.

" 'Lift drawbridge, fools/ I hailed the warders. 'Close
your gates. Heaven will not always be so kindly to you.'

" 'Do you come in, Legate,' they babbled. 'We are weakly
garrisoned. We — '

" 'What of Kyndylan ?' I called back.

"A howl of rage answered me, and Llywarch Hen — the
poet who sought to entertain you on the quay, Count Domi-
tianus — stepped into the gateway.

r| 'The shapeliest sapling of Powys has been lopped by
Saxon axes,' he wailed. 'Eagles of the North have drunk
the heart's blood of him who was the pride of poets, the de
light of maidens, the joy of his people, the — '

" 'Is he dead ?'

" 'The choir of Saints stooped to catch his head, and the
trees of the mountains soughed in unison when he — '

" 'Who commands there ?' I demanded.

"A lean, hard-faced officer stepped on the battlements of
the gate-tower. I knew him for a Tribune of the Third Co
hort of Brigantes; his name was Marcus; a capable man.

" 'Are you coming with us, Legate ?J he asked. clf
not — '

' 'Bar your gates,' I returned. 'And stand prepared to
unbar them if I decide to come in. All my troops are not

up yet. Also, I am not clear in my mind how best to safe
guard the city.'

* You can safeguard it best by joining its garrison,' he
replied coolly. 'I haven't five hundred trained men to hold
three miles of walls. As for these — ' he waved a hand down
at the Britons still clustered in the gateway — 'they'll do for
archers, but I can't put them in a breach.'

"It was a good argument. But I couldn't commit myself
while the Sixth was out of touch.

' 'Do what you can,' I told him. 'When the Legion has
come up I will decide. You can manage until then, can't
you ?'

' 'I can manage as long as I can hold the walls,' he growled.

"I had observed a cloud of dust billowing over the road
across the ford, and I knew that this must be my Legionaries.
The Saxons had drawn off east a couple of bowshots, carry
ing most of their wounded with them, and were standing in
a sullen ring, with shields dressed to meet an attack from any
direction. Apparently, they were not eager to push matters
at the moment. Kyndylan's Britons had taken some toll, and
my charges had been expensive. But east among the trees I
saw the glimmer of steel, and south and north bodies of
armed men were moving toward the slopes above the ford.
There were more of the Saxons than I had expected. It was
the largest host they had ever mustered against us. We were
outnumbered two or three to one — and my men were weary
and my horses' heads drooped.

"I thought hard. Should I risk battle in the open ? No,
it was too dangerous. Should I withdraw to the west bank
of the river and remain in observation ? There was much to
be said for this. I could menace Cenric's position at will,
interfere with his plundering parties. But in the meantime
what would happen in Viroconion ? The Tribune Marcus
had told me all he dared in so public a manner, and that was
enough to warn me the people were faint-hearted. For
which there was a reason. It had been accepted along the
Border that when the Barbarians attacked again their blow

rne JCAST JCCGIO^ 125

would be directed at Aquas Sulis, which was most exposed.
The citizens of Viroconion were doubly dismayed to find that
Cenric's rage struck first at them. The defeat of Kyndylan
must have shaken their confidence further.

"The city's fall meant the devastation of the Border. My
mission was to save it from capture. And whether rightly
or wrongly, I decided I might protect it most effectively
from within its walls. Perhaps I — But what do you
think, Count of the Bononian Shore ?"

"I do not know what to think," I admitted. "I am very
glad the decision was not for me to make. Did Cenric op
pose your entry ?"

"Not he ! And it is recollection of his willingness to per
mit me to reinforce the garrison that prompts my doubts.
You can see how his mind worked ? Outside the walls he
could never be sure what I was doing. Inside, he knew
where to account for me every day and all day."

"A shrewd strategy," I agreed. "It amounts to this: he
was playing for all or nothing, even as you were."

"You are right," answered Marbonius. "I have thought
that, myself. But it is easier to look backwards than for
wards. If only Kyndylan had — But the man is dead, and
he could never have been other than he was. It was God's
Providence, as Bishop Rufinius said when he blessed my
sword, lest there be some deviltry connected with it — that
was after it had become famous through the city. Yes, God's
providence. God's Providence that the heathen should pos
sess Britain. But why ?"

"I have never found priest to answer me similar questions,
my friend," I said.

"There are some things beyond priestly wisdom," he re
marked shrewdly. "The Bishop said it was a blessing on the
city when the Sixth marched in through the South Gate, bag
gage and gear, under cover of my cataphracti and some for-
mentce Marcus erected on the neighboring curtains of the
walls. But I can not see the blessing for anyone of us con
cerned therein."

126

I refilled the wine-cups.

"You strain my curiosity unbearably, man from another
world," I urged. "What happened to your city after you
entered ?"

"Nothing for several days," he replied. "I had sent away
the alee of light horse with instructions to join the cataphracti
from Isca, and finally, a week after I entered Viroconion I
concerted an enterprise with these troops across the river by
means of which we introduced a small train of provisions.
And it was good that we did. In another week Cenric had
secured additional men, determined his own plan and sealed
us effectively within the walls. The days were not far off
when we should have to kill the horses of the cataphracti for
food."

"But this magic sword ?"

"Ah, but was it magic ? That is another question I have
never had answered. Sometimes I thought it was. And
Cenric did. Surely, it was the most potent defense we had.
You see, toward the end of that second week the Barbarians
began to attack the walls, not blindly and stupidly, so that
we could shoot them down with arrows or crush them by
ranks with the catapults, but quick, hard-thrust surprise as
saults, two or three at once at widely separated spots. They
had no siege-engines, but they rigged rams and worked them
very ably, with hurdles protected by green hides to shelter
their men. And after another week or so they began night-
attacks, which were the most trying of all. We could never
tell at which point in a circuit of three miles their ladders
would be heard scraping under the battlements, and in con
sequence we were obliged to keep our men on the walls in
full shifts at night as well as by day.

"In the third week, too, they found a weak place in the
east wall, and set to pounding a breach. The wall was old,
and once the rubble core crumbled we were helpless to stay
their ravages. All I could do was to build an inner rampart
of levelled houses. They made their first assault on the
fourth night after the breach was started, and we lost five

TH£ -CAST ££GlOl<t 127

hundred men between midnight and dawn. Once they were
over the inner rampart. And the following afternoon they
opened an attack at the South Gate. By dusk they had
bridged the moat and burst in the gate, and again we stayed
them by erection of a makeshift parapet of earth and
building-stones.

"From that night on we never knew an hour's peace.
Cenric sent to all the Barbarians in Britain, the Jutes and the
Angles, who hold the East Coast north of the Saxon terri
tories, and the remnants of the Picts in the far North. 'This
is the time to bury our own quarrels,' he said. 'Help me to
take Viroconion, and the Britons' lands will be bare to us.
Here is more loot than we have won since our fathers' time.'
They flocked to him, all save the Picts, who helped him by
a diversion such as I had dreaded when I forebore to call for
the cataphracti at Deva, drenching the Northern Border in
a whirlwind of blood and fire. The Angles and Jutes, how
ever, marched to Viroconion, and in the fourth week of the
siege they battered a second breach in the west wall next the
river.

"There was rivalry betwixt them and the Saxons as there
was betwixt my men and the Britons, yes, and betwixt the
citizens and the garrison. Several Senators wanted to ask
Cenric for terms. All they thought of was saving their
fat necks. One I hanged in his toga, and that shut the
mouths of the rest. We also had a number of frays, in
which men were slain. And I could never depend on the
Britons. Oh, they were brave enough, but unstable. One
day they would fight like Legionaries; and then they would
become as frightened as children who had seen a spirit in the
dark. But my real trouble was with the citizens. You
would think that because of their families they would fight
more desperately than any of us. But not at all. The town-
life had softened them, and they were too accustomed to
leaving all military duty to the soldiers. With the Bar
barians, on the other hand, whatever their differences might
be, they all forgot their animosities the instant the war-horns

blew. Amongst them, as you doubtless know, every man is
a soldier; his first wealth goes into his arms and armor. It
is their pride to be well-equipped, as it is their pleasure to
fight, and he amongst them who dies in battle is assured of
salvation.

"When our provisions ran short, and we had to eat horse
meat there were loud protests because I favored the fighting
men in distributing the rations. I said the strength of the
fighting men must come first, it was all that stood between
the women and children and slavery or death. But the citi
zens charged me with cruelty and a policy of starvation. It
was Bishop Rufinius who quelled them. He was a fussy old
man I had never had much use for, but he developed new
qualities in the siege. The night toward the end of the fifth
week when the Barbarians burst simultaneously through the
South Gate and the west breach, Rufinius marched in the
midst of my cataphracti to stem the assault, mitre on head
and crozier in hand. 'Christ with us, my sons/ he said. He
died in the breach, a Saxon arrow in his eye.

"The Tribune Marcus led the reserves we dispatched to
regain the South Gate, and he succeeded after very severe
fighting — we had to pay a life for every two we took. I
had expelled the Jutes and Angles from the west wall, and
stood leaning on Grey Maiden, listening to a report by one
of his officers, when a tumult broke out behind us, and Lly-
warch Hen ran from an alley to say the Saxons had forced
the east breach. I mustered my dismounted cataphracti and
a cohort of Legionaries, and we tramped wearily across the
city. St. Alban, how tired we were ! In the Via Triumph-
alis, which runs from the South Gate to the forum, Mar
cus encountered me. 'You know the Britons have yielded
the east breach ?' he asked. 'By St. Paul, Legate, we are
at the end of our tether. There is a fresh attack forming
against the South Gate.' As he spoke the howling of the
Jutes and Angles rose again at the foot of the west breach,
and I heard our trumpets calling up the Legionaries, whom I

TH£ JCAST jCeGIO^ 129

had left prostrate amongst the dead, snatching the sleep that
was as welcome to them as wine.

"Once more, I knew the worst. We could no longer
maintain the circuit of the walls. 'Henceforth we fight from
house to house,' I said. 'Pass the word to all your officers.
The forum shall be our citadel.' 'And the citizens ?' What
could I answer him ? 'We have done all we can for them.
Now they must care for themselves. Our task is to hold
the city so long as we can lift our swords.' He nodded
grimly. 'That is common sense, Legate,' he agreed. 'If all
must die, does it matter that some shall die sooner than
others ?' He sped off, and for a breath I would have re
called him. Who was I to pass sentence on the feeble thou
sands whose wan faces showed in every door and window ?
But then I chanced to look down at my sword, its grey glint
burning hungrily through the red drops that trickled from
hilt to point. It seemed to flash a message back to me:
Fight ! Fight on ! And I remembered that I was not a
man, but the custodian of a cause. Yet the shrieks of the
women appall my ears as I sit here.

"Heavenly Father, those were bloody days ! Have you
ever defended a city from house to house, from street to
street ? Ha, you do not know war ! The ruddy sweep of
the flames, the hoarse barking of the death grapple, the sobs
of the wounded, the thunder of falling walls, smoke of fire
and dust of combat clouding the sun, so that at noon the
streets are shadowed. Both sides were obsessed by the pas
sion of conflict. For us it was the last stand to keep the
Border inviolate. Viroconion became more than a city, more
than the scene of our agony. It was Britain — Rome ! All
that Rome ever meant in that outermost province of the Em
pire. To the Barbarians the struggle was the final test of
their prowess. They ceased to reckon the slaughter in over
coming our defense. Valorous always, they were now spend
thrift of life. Any little spot that we clung to was essen
tial to them, no matter what it cost. What if as many died

1 3o

as lived ? The plundered countryside provided meat and
wine for the living; they had hordes of women plucked from
the ruins; we sold them day by day at the highest price we
could wring from ready spenders.

"Back, we were driven, back, back. We fought hungry;
we fought thirsty; we fought in our sleep. We slew until
our arms hung limp. But however exhausted I was, the
sword never failed me. I should have died a score of times
but for the strange power which seemed to render it invin
cible. Again and again I was beaten down, isolated, trapped
in a circle of heathen, my helmet knocked off, my shield in
splinters — and the sword would find me a path of escape.
'Follow the Grey Maid !' the Legionaries would cry. 'Up
Victrix ! The Legate's Maid is lustful again.'

"By the tenth day after the Barbarians passed the walls we
were hemmed in the block of buildings surrounding the
forum, a scant cohort of the Legionaries, a troop or so of
the catapbractl and a handful of Britons and townsfolk.
We barricaded the street entrances with stones and pillars
from the arcades, uniting the Senate House, the Basilica, the
Church of St. Alban and the Baths into one massive fortress.
But we lacked the men to make our resistance effective.
Cenric battered a way through the rear wall of St. Alban's,
and we retired into the Baths and the Basilica. Marcus and a
score or so of the citizens maintained themselves in the
Senate House for two days more. We in the Baths and the
Basilica were almost impregnable. The two structures were
built in Trajan's time, as solidly as this Vrcetorium, forming a
right angle around two sides of the forum. Our principal
defect was that each time we were attacked, despite our
strong walls, we must lose men. And men we could not
afford to lose.

"The Barbarians refused to be discouraged. They tried
every device that ingenuity could suggest. Day after day
they hurled themselves at us, three times forcing an entrance
in the double-doorway of the Basilica which led to the Law
Courts, as undeterred the third time as the second, although

me £Asr jcecioi^ 131

every man who crossed the threshold perished. They
brought up a catapult from the walls, and endeavored to
work it against the Baths, thinking to make a breach; but
they had no experience with tormentce and did us little harm.
They tried to burn or smoke us out, heaping our walls with
fagots, and under cover of the smoke, Cenric headed a fourth
attempt on the Basilica. I slashed him in the thigh, and
should have slain him when he fell if two of his thanes had
not offered their bodies to protect him while others drew
him clear of the ruck. They lowered men to the roof of the
Baths from the porch of St. Alban's, thinking to fight their
way down to the street floor; but we accounted for all who
attempted the venture.

"It was the next day that Cenric limped into the midst
of the forum, a thane bearing a peace-shield in front of
him.

'•' *I will speak with the Briton who wields the grey sword/
he called.

"These Barbarians have no cognizance of Rome, Count
Domitianus. To them all who dwell in Britain are Britons.
So I set him right.

'' 'I am the Legate Marbonius,' I answered, climbing onto
the barricade in the doorway of the Basilica. 'I command
the Romans in Viroconion. Who are you who assault the
Roman power ?'

* 'I am Cenric, King of the West Saxons,' he said, grin
ning. 'And Roman or Briton, you will not be able to with
stand me much longer.'

'You have not succeeded very well against us this far,' I
said.

" 'Why, that is true,' he admitted candidly. 'We have
taken the city, and I suppose we shall kill you, if we can
not come to terms; but I would never have climbed the walls
had I known how many of my people should pass to Woden's
halls. You are a good servant of your gods. It is a rich
sacrifice you have offered them.'

" 'I do not sacrifice to my God, but to my country.'

" 'It is all one,' he returned impatiently. 'Will you talk
terms ?'

" 'What terms ?' I parried.

' 'Join me, and fight for me, and I will adopt you for my
son,' he proffered.

"' 'Do I appear like a man who would sell himself to his
people's enemies ?' I demanded.
"He looked abashed.

' 'I am a plain-spoken man,' he apologized, 'and I say
what is in my mind. I have thought often in the last month
that I would be proud to call you son, though my blood is
not your blood. You are the only man who can say that he
has struck down Cenric twice — and lived.'

1 'There are a few more of us who still live,' I answered.
" 'You have made a brave fight,' he said, 'but I am willing
to offer Woden another ten score warriors, if I must.'

' 'We do not sell cheap,' I taunted him.

'' 'You do not. You are the best men I have ever crossed
blades with. I have not taken one of you alive.'

' 'And you shall not.'

' 'I am content,' he retorted, 'if you will pay me a price
to let you go free.'

"Now, this was an idea which had never occurred to me.
I wondered if he would require some act of treachery from
me.

"That must depend upon what price you ask,' I replied.

' 'I will give you and all who still live with you your free
dom if you will give me your grey sword,' he said.

" 'It is a Roman's sword,' I objected. 'It has been blessed
by our priests. What service could it render you ?'

' 'A good sword will always serve a master who does not
stint its thirst,' he answered. 'And I will chance the bless
ings of your priests. If the old one, who died in the west
breach, had any part in it Woden could ask no fitter sponsor
for a blade.'

" 'But what do you mean by freedom ?' I asked, bewil
dered.

TH£ JCAST JCCGIOlSt 133

" 'I mean what I say.' He tugged savagely at his long
yellow mustaches. 'You may be my enemy, but did you
ever know a man of any race who could prove that Cenric
the West Saxon had flouted his own word ?'

"That was the truth, Count of the Bononian Shore. This
Cenric was a man of his word. And his suggestion inspired
me with the plan which brought me hither.

" 'Will you supply me and my men with a ship, and grant
us safe conduct oversea to Gaul ?' I challenged him.

"He was plainly puzzled.

' 'So you will not join your brethren — over there ?'

"He waved a hand westward.

" 'I will give you the grey sword only on the terms I have
named,' I said curtly. 'A sizeable ship, and safe conduct to
Gaul.'

1 'You are not quite the man I deemed you to be,' he
growled. 'I expected to meet you some day again — when I
carried the grey sword. But you shall have your way. I,
myself, will go with you to the sea, and give you one of my
own longships. It is a steep price to pay for a sword, but I
pay it gladly, for I have seen what the sword can do. And
if it can do so much in the hands of a Briton or Roman or
whatever you choose to call yourself, what will it do when a
Saxon stirs the red broth with it ?' "

Marbonius fell silent a moment, my Anicius, and I — But
it is needless for me to describe my feelings.

"That is my story," he added presently, and sighed. "If it
has wearied you, I apologize. Has it suggested aught that
we can do for Britain's plight ?"

I stood up before him.

"There is only one thing I can do for Britain," I said.
"And that is to fight for her."

"Yourself ?" he questioned eagerly. "Do you think
many — "

"O, man from another world," I exclaimed, "how shall I
make you comprehend that the Rome you expected to find
is dead ? Here nobody cares for Britain. Frank and Goth

134

are concerned with their own conquests. The Romans left
are degenerate and factious as your own British princes."

"But you — "

"Yes, I will fight for Britain, because I should like to
sample the air of the island that could breed a Roman like
you, Marbonius."

He was silent again for a while. Then he also rose.

"The dusk approaches," he said. "I must put forth."

"I can not go with you at such short notice," I protested.
"I have responsibilities to fulfil."

"You must not leave them," he returned. "It warmed
my heart when you offered to go with me, Count Domitianus.
Despite what you say, it proved the Roman spirit still smoul
ders outside of Britain's tiny Roman corner. But I would
have you remember that we who labor to carry on the tra
dition of Rome must each bend his back to the particular
task God's providence has entrusted to him. You, I doubt
not, implant some measure of discipline and courtesy in the
administration of the Barbarians in Gaul. I, perhaps, accom
plish an inscrutable purpose in striving to preserve our British
heritage."

"We labor in vain !" I cried angrily.

His face twisted in that smile without mirth.

"Who shall say what is vain ?" he asked softly. "Often I
have known discouragement. Many times it has seemed im
possible to reconcile the evils of life with an All-Wise Divin
ity. You have heard me chafe at the failures of my own
people and their allies. But as I look back, now, as I adjust
myself to the disappointment of all my hopes, I know that
there is a reason for what we do and suffer. If Rome must
die shall she leave no legacy behind her to enrich the earth ?"

"She is dead !" I insisted.

"Then let us spread her legacy as broadcast as we may."
His armor rattled in the movement of the salute. "Ave,
C&sar I Morituri te salutamus !"

And so he went. An hour later from the quay I saw his
galley dwindling in the West.

TH€ jCAST ^CGIO'K 135

Oh, my Anicius, tell me, you who are so much wiser, so
much better in word and thought and deed than I, tell me:
in very truth, have all our Roman centuries been in vain ?
Must the gathering night of barbarism obscure forever the
learning and culture of the ages ? What has Christianity
done for us that the Old Gods did not do ? Would Christ,
if He were here, approve what Clovis and Theodoric do in
His name ? Does the world drift or is it spinning toward a
definite goal ? Is this Rome's end — or is there an here
after ?

Farewell ! Farewell ! Farewell !

Chapter V
THE RIDER FROM THE DESERT

NE moment the waste of sand and sun-scorched rocks
stretched empty from horizon to horizon, the next
the watchman on the gate-tower of Muta was shad
ing his eyes to peer fixedly east and west at two spirals of
dust sifting upward under the impulse of the hot wind.
They were nearly half a day's journey apart, those two
spirals, not likely that there was any connection between
them. Still, every sign of life was worthy of suspicion on
the desert march, and the watchman reached instinctively
for his horn.

Below him the gateway arch resounded to the tramp of a
column of infantry, drums tapping, cymbals clashing, armor
rattling, as they marched in from the practice ground be
yond the moat. By the end of the drawbridge stood a little
group of officers, mounted and on foot, observing several
numeri of horse, cataphracti, going through a series of com
plicated battle manoeuvres. The watchman on the tower
glanced down at them. Huge Basilakes, who was called the
Stammerer, the dux of the infantry, had stopped to speak to
Crispus, the Deputy-governor. There was young Flavius
Eutyches, too, tribune of the Tenth Thracians. The watch-

136

TH£ ^IDe^ FROM TH£ VeseRT 137

man resumed his inspection of the approaching dust spirals,
prepared to bellow the alarm to his superiors. But he shook
his head, puzzled.

The spiral in the east, whence came the fierce riders of the
desert, was too small to be caused by more than a single
rider. No harm there. And westward, the declining sun
darted a ray of light into the heart of the more consider
able dust cloud and produced an unmistakable glimmer of
armor. There could be no armored enemies on the Jeru
salem road, the watchman reflected; those riders must be the
new Governor and his escort. Crispus would wish to know
that.

He leaned over the battlements, and blew a single short
blast on his horn. The group of officers across the moat
broke off their conversation, and Eutyches, at a word from
Crispus, spurred onto the drawbridge.

"What's your report, watchman ?" he called.

"A cloud of dust on the Jerusalem road, Tribune, armored
men."

"The new Governor," exclaimed Eutyches, and started to
rein around.

"And another rider from the desert," the watchman cried
after him.

The tribune of the Thracians nodded in sign that he had
heard, and clattered back to Crispus.

"Stavrakios is in sight," he announced, grinning at the
Deputy-governor. "So passes power, eh ? You become dux
of the cavalry again, and I must be content with my
Thracians."

Crispus, a lean, restless man, tried not to look crestfallen.

"I don't think he can find cause to criticize us," he
said.

Basilakes was more outspoken.

"S-s-ss-saint Demetrios," grunted the Stammerer — he
was a black-browed Isaurian, gigantic in stature, slow-
moving as his own clanking scutati. "To think that a 1-lousy
courtier is t-tto command soldiers !"

i3 8 QRCY

"Oh, Constantine Stavrakios is more than a courtier," ex
claimed Crispus, with an effort at fairness. "You know him,
Flavius ?"

The younger man assented; he was small and compact, a
fair Greek.

"Yes, yes ! Don't under-value the Governor, Basilakes.
I saw him in the ruck at Nineveh. By the Forerunner, that
was a fight ! From sunrise until dark, and the Persians as
thick as a pest of grasshoppers. After the Emperor, no man
wrought more for us than Stavrakios. He had a moira of
Obsequii, three thousand stalwarts. Heraclius led them in
the last charge — when he killed Reza Khan. It was just
short of sunset, and the dust was like smoke over the field.
We'd hammered the Persians all day; our tongues were thick
with thirst; our arms were tired from slaughtering. We
couldn't break them — kill them, yes. I had a century of
Macedonians, I remember. We were returning from a dash
at a clump of spears, when we saw the Emperor on his white
charger, Dorkon, like — like a streak of flame, Stavrakios at
his elbow and the Obsequii thundering at their heels."

The group of officers gathered closer. If this was an old
story, nonetheless it was unfailing in interest.

"Reza came out to meet them, and the Emperor rode
straight at him. We could see the swords flickering over
their helms, then Reza seemed to slip from his saddle, and
Heraclius rode on. 'Christ for Rome !' he shouted. And
he and Stavrakios and their Obsequii disappeared in the midst
of the Persians. We all started forward, and almost before
we knew it, the enemy were breaking up. If it hadn't been
for the darkness we should have caught them all; but we
were worn out, and the night — "

"Ah, that's all v-very well," interposed Basilakes, "but
what does Stavrakios want out here on the desert march ?
It doesn't smell nice. He mu-must have d-done something
pretty rotten to g-get b-banished here."

Crispus spoke up quickly with an obvious attempt at fair
ness.

me ^/DC^ PROM rne veseRr 139

"Not necessarily. Many good men lose the Emperor's
favor. I have never been to Court, it's true, but Flavius will
bear me out."

The tribune of the Thracians assented again, his brows
knit in concentration.

"It's not a disgrace to be in disgrace at Court, the Body-
less Ones know that ! I was thinking, Crispus. There was
a story about Stavrakios, a story of a sword he won at
Nineveh."

"Many others won swords at Nineveh," scowled Basilakes.
"And m-m-maybe w-we out here w-w-win — "

Eutyches waved his hand impatiently.

"Oh, this wasn't an ordinary sword. There were tales
about it. The Persian who carried it had been knocked from
his horse and crushed. Men said — let me think; it was sev
eral years ago, and I haven't thought much — ah, yes, men
said that it was a magic sword, that whoever carried it might
not be slain by steel."

Basilakes laughed contemptuously, and Crispus remarked:

"What has that to do with the appointment of Stavrakios
to command here ?"

"That's wh-what I want to kn-know," assented Basilakes.
"Crispus did very well this last year. Y-y-you are a new
man, Flavius, but w-we have been here years, and I don't
see any lower military st-st-standards since the old days at
Muta when Phocas was Governor. H-be was trained by
Maurice, and if he drank n-now and then, he was a soldier.
So is Crispus."

"You are good comrades," Eutyches answered simply.

He regarded them both, with a sudden effect of shyness.

"Perhaps," he went on, "Stavrakios feels as I did."

"And how did you feel ?" queried Crispus, while Basilakes
muttered sullenly:

"No fear ! He's not your sort of Roman."

Eutyches hesitated.

"Well," he said slowly, "I came here because it seemed to
be the place for a soldier, After we beat the Persians life

140

was very slow in Constantinople, in the other big garrisons,
too. I tried Dorylseum. But that isn't soldiering; it's just
play. I wanted the same thrill we used to have, danger, the
demand for vigilance. So I came here — where I knew a
soldier must always be a soldier."

"And you think Stavrakios comes voluntarily, too ?" asked
Crispus.

"Why not ?" returned Eutyches.

"But why?" insisted Basilakes. "H-he isn't you — or
anything like you. H-he's another one of these b-back-
scratching, b-bath-lounging pat-patricians, with a Senator
and a Bishop for uncles, and farms all over the Empire."

"I wonder," remarked Crispus, gathering up his horse's
bridle. "He sounds better than I expected. I don't mind
being succeeded by a man who — Why didn't you tell us
about him before, Eutyches ?"

The Tribune of the Thracians flushed awkwardly.

"We're the same breed, Stavrakios and I," he said.
"Didn't you ever wonder why a man as young as I had got
ten my numerus ? I'm — my family have farms 'all over
the Empire,' Basilakes."

"I d-don't care how many farms you have," blustered the
big Isaurian, patting his friend's mailed thigh. "Y-you're
our kind. You're a soldier. And weren't you at Nineveh ?"

"So was Stavrakios," Eutyches reminded him.

Crispus' thin, intelligent features lighted with an under
standing smile.

"You are a good advocate," he said. "Come, we must in
spect the fortress. I want everything in shape for the
merarch. Flavius, your Thracians will be the guard. Parade
them here. Basilakes, we'll turn out one of your numeri in
the fore-court. Which do you say, your own Isaurians ?"

Basilakes shook his head.

"No, no, my friend. I'm not the one to start jealousy.
G-give it to the Syrians. The Eighth are junior here."

"By all means," agreed the Deputy-governor.

rue i(iDei( FROM rue 'DCSCRT 141

"Oh, by the way," Eutyches called after Crispus, "the
watchman reported a rider from the desert."

"Alone ?"

"Alone."

Crispus shrugged carelessly.

"I'll see him when he comes in. There may have been a
raid. I'm afraid we 'haven't much to offer Stavrakios in the
way of action, as a matter of fact."

"All St-stavrakios will want w-will be a h-hot bath,"
grunted the Isaurian as he put foot to the drawbridge.

II

THE lone rider on the desert track halted warily as the glit
tering centuries formed in double ranks on either side of the
approach to the drawbridge. His eyes, burning, intense,
flickered over the scene, taking in the orderly array of mailed
cavalry, the knot of officers in gilded armor, with chased
and befeathered helms, the bristling spears, the eagle-crested
standards of pagan Rome topped by the cross of Christ, the
military engines on the ramparts, the high towers. Muta
rose from the desert floor as solid, as permanent, as endurable
as a cliff. Beyond it, the horseman traced the beaten road
which traversed the intervening wastes to the Dead Sea and
came at last to Jerusalem.

A derisive smile twisted his gaunt face at sight of the
cavalcade advancing from the west; white teeth shone be
hind the thicket of his black beard. He rode on, sitting his
roan stallion very erect, a cloak wrapped around his tall form,
his features obscured by a loose head-dress which was held in
place by a circlet of woven camels-hair. Without swagger
ing, he contrived to be as much at ease as though he led a
thousand men, ignoring the pomp and parade about him.
He would have ridden directly into the fortress between the
ranks of the guard, if Crispus had not hailed him in the
dialect of the desert tribes.

1 42 QRCY

"Ho, stranger, who are you ?"

The lone rider reined in at once, and met the Deputy-
governor with a level glance.

"I am called Khalid," he replied harshly. "I am of the
Koreisch."

"Of Mecca ?" asked Crispus. And turning to Eutyches,
the Deputy-governor added: "This is a far-travelled fellow,
Flavius. He is from the South by the Arabian Sea."

"I was of Mecca," the Arab answered no less harshly. "I
am of Medina. Who are you ?"

"I am Crispus," said the Deputy-governor. "What do
you wish ?"

"I bear a message for the Emperor of Rome. Are you
the sheik of this place ?"

Crispus pointed his baton of office down the Jerusalem
Road.

"Until that man comes, I rule in Muta."

"Then I wait for him," replied the Arab with decision.

"From whom is your message, Khalid ?" put in Eutyches,
more to test his hard-learned command of the dialect than to
acquire information.

Two eyes blazed into his; high-arched nostrils quivered.

"From the Prophet of Allah."

The words fell with a sing-song intonation, indescribably
curious.

"And what is Allah ?" pressed Eutyches.

Crispus shook his bridle nervously.

"This is no time for gossip," he remonstrated in the Greek
which was the normal speech of the garrison, outside of mili
tary exercises. "Stravrakios is almost here. Let the Arab
go. He is no longer our concern. And he is crazy, any
way, by what I can make out."

"Your pardon, Crispus," apologized the tribune of the
Thracians. "At your service."

The Deputy-governor motioned to Khalid, who would
have followed them.

"Back ! Stand back. Can't you see that the merarch is

rne ^KIDC^ FROM me 'DCSCRT 143

coming ? You must wait. Here ! " He beckoned a trooper
from the rear rank of the Thracians. "Take care of this
fellow. He has a message for the new Governor. Fetch
him into the Castle after us."

There was no indication of humility in the desert rider's
obedience. He backed his horse behind the ranks of the
guard, and sat there, quietly watching the ceremony.

The horns of the cavalry echoed brazenly. From inside
the gate responded the drums and cymbals of the Syrian in
fantry. The decurions muttered orders and directions from
file to file. Crispus, Eutyches, and the other officers drew
their swords and faced the oncoming troop in the Jerusalem
road.

Stavrakios rode at the head of a decury. Evidently he
travelled light for his baggage was limited to two pack-mules.
His armor was coated with dust, his face was streaked with
it; but the square sturdiness of his figure, the stern self-
reliance of his face, were more impressive than the chased
and gilded mail of the officers who received him. He was
rather short, but tremendously thick in the barrel, dark in
the old Roman way, with a beak of a nose, a black bar of
eyebrows meeting above it, a jaw carved in almost straight
lines.

As he came up with the guard of honor Crispus barked
an order, the trumpets sounded again and lances were tossed
in salute. Stavrakios' sword flashed out in a grey streak of
light. The desert rider started and leaned forward, a hungry
glow in his sombre eyes, his fingers twitching.

"Allah, what a blade !" he murmured.

The trooper beside him laid a hand on his rein.

"Keep your place, heathen dog," the cataphract ordered
in bastard Arabic.

The cloaked rider tautened, then relaxed; but his right
hand continued to open and shut, open and shut. It was
as if he clutched at a sword-hilt, or, perhaps, throttled a
man.

Stavrakios hailed Crispus with curt sincerity.

144

"You are the dux Crispus ? Your men do you honor.
Ha, I see my friend Eutyches. A tribune, now ? And not
afraid of heat and sand ! Flavius, there are few like you
in Constantinople — or elsewhere. Our young nobles are
all for easy living. But perhaps we shall show them the
Roman spirit is alive again, eh ?

"Shall we ride in, Crispus ? Humph ! You keep your
drawbridge chains greased, I see. Is there difficulty in secur
ing grease ? We'll remedy that. I have the Emperor's
leave to call for anything in the magazines at Antioch. That
tower is well patched. A very defensive gateway. And
here are your infantry ! Syrians ? Well drilled. Basilakes
is dux of the infantry drungos ? Ha, Basilakes, you are a
man after my own heart. Always see to your men's boots.
That was the Emperor's first rule in the Persian campaigns,
and so we out-marched and out-fought every army that came
against us."

Basilakes rumbled a half-hearted acknowledgment.

"M-more fighting th-than dressing here, merarch."

Stavrakios gave him a shrewd look.

"I am glad to hear it. St. George ! That is why I am
here."

Eutyches winked covertly at Crispus.

"What do you say to him ?" the tribune whispered behind
his hand.

"I like him," Crispus answered bluntly. "He is a man and
a soldier."

"But Basilakes has made up his mind to dislike him !"

"We'll take care of that later."

Outside the fortress the trooper who had the desert rider
in charge was urging his man toward the drawbridge.

"Make haste, you scabby dog," he growled. "By the Vir
gin, I think you are a beggarly Jew. Get on ! Do you want
us to be locked out ?"

The Arab kneed his horse onto the bridge in a silence that
was as much sinister as scornful.

rm ^ZD<?^ FROM <THe vestR? 145

in

STAVRAKIOS glanced approvingly at the row of standards in
the rack along the end wall of the sacellum. In front of
them was an altar dedicated to St. George.

"I like that custom," he said. "If our ancestors were
pagans, they were warriors. We Romans have a great
heritage."

Basilakes sneered.

"Wh-what is a Roman, merarch ?" he asked. "I'm an
Is-Isaurian. Crispus is a Syr-Syrian. Flavius is a Greek.
And you — "

"That is a bad spirit, Basilakes," Stavrakios interrupted
coldly. "Rome was — Rome is — more than a city. It is
an idea, a tradition. To be a Roman one need not have been
born beside the Capitol. We — you, Crispus, Flavius,
Eutyches, all of us, the least of us — are Romans because we
carry on the Empire Rome founded."

"Well said," exclaimed Crispus.

"Basilakes must have the belly-ache this evening," said
Eutyches, trying to cover the sour mood of the Stammerer.

"I can eat or d-d-drink any of you un-under the table,"
denied Basilakes, stammering the more in his irritation.
"And I'm not a hyp-hyp-hypocrite. I don't believe in Rome.
Who does ? There isn't any Rome — just a b-b-big heap of
ruins, with a lot of p-priests and Lombards wrangling tog-g-
gether, and a Bishop who calls himself Pope and tries to
tell us Easterns what we should believe. To hell with Rome,
I say !"

Crispus and Eutyches murmured uncomfortably, but
Stavrakios displayed no resentment. The merarch regarded
Basilakes with a calm interest, poised, cool, unprejudiced.

"Your point of view is not new to me," he answered.
"There are those in Constantinople, yes, at the Court, who
hold it. I have heard men declaim against the retention of
the Latin drill. But if we abandon our Roman heritage what
shall we adopt in its place ?"

i46 QKCY

"B-be ourselves," retorted the Isaurian. "Are you ashamed
of being a p-pat-patrician of Constantinople, with more
Greek blood, very likely, than Latin ?"

"Not at all," replied Stavrakios collectedly. "But per
mit me to remind you that you sidestep my contention that
to be a Roman is not necessarily to be Latin. Rome is an
idea, a legend, a tradition. It is the Empire."

"Once it was," growled the Stammerer. "N-now the Em
pire is more Greek than Roman."

"What will Crispus say to that, who is Syrian ?" inquired
the merarch with a dry smile.

"It is true that many feel as Basilakes does," admitted
Crispus. "We have little in common with Rome or the
West, merarch. These days the West is a brawling ground
for barbarians who batter down the monuments of the old
Empire. Only here in the East are our fathers' works main
tained."

"Exactly," cried Stavrakios. "And our fathers were
Romans, my friend. The Roman West is, indeed, Roman no
more. Only the Eastern Empire persists in treasuring the
memories of the past. So, I say, why should we refuse to
call ourselves Roman ? What other unifying force would
hold our different races fused to the one purpose ?"

There was an interval of silence. Basilakes, scowling,
plainly hesitated to open wider the disagreement with his
superior.

"Is not Christianity sufficient ?" hazarded Eutyches.

Stavrakios rubbed his smooth-shaven chin, staring reflec
tively at the statuette of St. George.

"A difficult question, my Flavius," he answered finally.
"Religion is a mighty force, yet — Bethink you, the Per
sians were able to capture Jerusalem and the True Cross —
or what men call the True Cross," he added, frankly cyn
ical.

"We won it back," objected Crispus.

"We won it back," repeated the merarch. "Heraclius won

fne ^KiDe^ FROM rne VPSCR? 147

it back. And how ? With Roman discipline. Flavius, you
were at Nineveh. Say, did cohorts of angels fight for us —
or did we win with our own right arms ?"

"I saw no divine aid," assented Eutyches. "We won by
the sword."

The merarch's hand went involuntarily to the hilt of his
weapon.

"By the sword," he repeated again. "Yes, if there was un
earthly aid that day the Persians shared it with us."

He looked from one to the other of the three officers.

"I would not have the priests hear me say so, my friends,
but this Christ of ours is not a warlike God. Christianity
is a good religion, finer and better, no doubt, than any our
pagan forefathers knew; but it does not spur men to con
quest. No, no, for that we must rely upon our ancient Ro
man traditions, the spirit of the Legions."

"What is an idea ?" growled the Stammerer. "O-on-only
something in y-your head."

For the first time a hint of contempt appeared in Stav-
rakios' voice as he answered:

"You are very much mistaken, Basilakes. An idea is the
most powerful weapon in the world. One man with the
right idea can overcome an Empire — if he believes in him
self."

"If y-you believe in Christ I don't see how you c-can be
lieve in Rome," said Basilakes stubbornly.

And Crispus thrust in:

"What you have said is true, merarch, but isn't it also
true that the trouble with the Empire is that we have out
grown the Roman tradition, without finding a new one to
take its place ?"

"That would be to confess failure," protested Eutyches.
"And the Empire has not failed. I am a young man, but I
can remember when the Persians held all of Egypt and
Orientem, from Alexandria to Chalcedon over against Con
stantinople, itself. Why, Stavrakios, when the Emperor

148 C?R£Y

took the field in 621, he had to go by water to reach his own
dominions. Men said the Empire was dead. And what
happened ? In six years we had beaten the Persians, rav
aged their lands, destroyed their chief cities. And the Em
pire's boundaries are restored."

"Roman discipline did it," Stavrakios replied steadily. "I
do not agree with Crispus that we have outgrown our tradi
tion of Empire. While the world lasts, Rome will last, not
the ruined city that Basilakes is concerned with, but the spirit
of organized endeavor which welded scores of different
peoples into one whole. If that spirit died, then — Ah,
but it cannot die !"

He turned squarely facing the row of standards, and his
long, grey sword, a span longer than the regulation spatha,
flared in the soft lamplight.

"I salute the Eagles," he exclaimed.

Even Basilakes was impressed, and Crispus inquired as the
merarch sheathed his blade:

"Is that the sword you won at Nineveh ?"

Stavrakios smiled sternly.

"Eutyches has been talking. Yes, this is the sword of
Nineveh — and God knows how many other battles. It is
as old as man. But I will speak of it another time. Now,
I would have you tell me of the garrison. This is a post of
two drungi ?"

"Yes, Stavrakios," Crispus assented. "It is a small moira,
strong enough for ordinary purposes, but too small for a
great emergency."

"How ?" questioned the merarch. "What is your
strength ?"

Crispus indicated the row of standards.

"I am dux of the horse," he explained. "Flavius, here,
commanded the drungus while I was Deputy-governor. We
have six numeri, the Seventh Paphlygonians, the Tenth Thra-
cians — "

"What are Thracians doing here ?" interjected Stavrakios.

rue ^ZD6^ FROM rne vestRr 149

"They were transferred from Adrianople as punishment
for a mutiny in Justinian's time," replied Crispus.

"I see. Go on."

"Then there are the Twelfth Cappadocians, the Fourth
Cilicians, and two centuries of the Fifth Syrians — the other
century is at Rostra. These five numeri are cataphracti.
Besides them we have the Twentieth Ghassanians, irregulars,
for scouting work. But all the numeri are under strength.
We couldn't put above 2,100 men in the field, and that is not
allowing for sickness."

"And the infantry ?" asked Stavrakios.

"Basilakes is dux of the infantry drungus," replied Cris
pus. "Let him tell you."

The Stammerer lumbered forward.

"My n-numeri are up to moderate strength," he reported
sullenly. "I have the Fourteenth Is-Isaurians, and the
Eighth, Ninth, and Thirteenth Syrians. They average five
hundred men, two thousand in all. It is easier to get infan
try recruits in this c-co-country; the Syrian numeri are al
ways up to strength, and whenever my Isaurians fall below
I send a message t-to my relatives."

"Your men are in excellent condition," Stavrakios compli
mented him as warmly as though they had not disagreed.
"Humph ! And we cover the frontier from the foot of the
Dead Sea to Bostra ?"

"That is correct, merarch," said Crispus.

"A long stretch for four thousand men. I could wish we
had more cavalry, but we must do the best we can. The
Emperor has laid a charge upon all his officers to economize.
To finance the Persian War, as you doubtless know, he bor
rowed heavily from the Church, and the Church, my
friends — " Stavrakios' tight lips curved satirically — "must
always have its debts repaid."

He moved toward the door.

"Is there food in the Principium ?" he inquired.

"Surely," said Crispus.

ijo QRCY

"Then I could eat. Join me, I pray you, all three."

In the corridor outside, as they walked to the officers'
refectory, Eutyches dropped back beside Basilakes.

"He hasn't had that hot bath yet, old Pepperpot," whis
pered the tribune of the Thracians.

Basilakes scowled with undiminished hostility.

"H-he's no good, little man. I never saw a man with
one of these new p-pat-patrician double names who was any
good."

"I have a double name," chuckled Eutyches. "All the
Senatorial families have. It's part of the Roman idea."

"I-i-i-idea !" snorted Basilakes. "I'll take his sword in
stead of an i-i-idea."

"But you must have an idea to use a sword," jeered
Eutyches.

"All I w-want is my arm and a head to cut at," rejoined
the Stammerer.

IV

IN the refectory Stavrakios shucked off his armor and placed
his sword on the table within reach of his hand; it lay
amongst the serving dishes, in its soiled and rusty scabbard,
with an effect of hidden menace. Eutyches found his eyes
returning to it again and again. Crispus, answering the
merarch's stream of questions, still yielded attention to the
subtle mystery which seemed to radiate from the sheathed
blade. Basilakes, too, silent for the most part, stole an occa
sional glance at the plain hilt of electrum, modelled to fit the
grip of straining fingers. Once Stavrakios touched it caress
ingly, absent-mindedly, as a man might touch the head of
a woman beloved, continuing without interruption his
shrewd interrogation of the others.

"What of the desert folk ?" he asked finally. "Do they
give you much trouble ?"

"Nothing serious," replied Crispus. "They raid a cara
van now and again, but they are an unstable race, jealous
of each other, tribe fighting tribe. We use our Ghassanian

<TH£ 3(ZD6^ FROM <TH£ WS^HT 151

irregulars against them usually. They are too swift for the
cataphracti."

Eutyches remembered the desert rider.

"Perhaps the merarch will wish to see the Arab who ar
rived this evening," he remarked. And added to Stavrakios:
"A strange fellow ! He said he had a message from the Em
peror from — what in Constantine's name was it ? — oh2
yes, from the Prophet of Allah."

"The man is crazy," said Crispus.

Stavrakios nodded.

"Probably. But have him in. Any message for the Em
peror — " He broke off as Eutyches rose to execute his
order; Basilakes, likewise, pushed back his chair, stammering
something about inspecting sentries — "I am selfishly disap
pointed you are so quiet, Crispus. I had hoped to offer a
small sacrifice to Mars."

He laughed at his own quip.

"Denounce me not to the priests ! They are all-powerful
in Constantinople for having supplied the Emperor with his
war funds. It was that as much as anything brought me
here."

His fingers closed again on the hilt of the sword.

"Although I do not know," he went on. "Something
seemed to draw me, to urge me. The Emperor grows old;
his belly swells with disease. He is not the man he was.
In Constantinople all the people think of is the latest gossip of
the Court, who profited most from the African grain fleet,
whether Blue or Green will win the next chariot race in the
Hippodrome. So one day I took a map, spread it flat under
an inkhorn and my dagger, shut my eyes and dropped the
point of my sword upon it haphazard. The point rested in
Syria, close to the desert march. 'An omen,' said I. And
I made inquiry, and discovered there was a Governor to be
appointed for Muta and besought the post of the Emperor."

A shadow on the face of Crispus attracted his attention,
and he exclaimed contritely:

"By Hercules, I had no thought of cheating you out of

QR€Y

promotion, man. Hold that not against me." His own face
shadowed. "If it had not been I, it must have been some
other favorite, perhaps less worthy. The curse of the Em
pire, my Crispus, is favor. It is not sufficient to be worthy.
No, no, you must have wealth, family, friends. Not even
the Emperor, great as he is, can resist intrigue."

"You shame me for my resentment," answered Crispus
straightforwardly. "And it is as you say, Stavrakios, we are
fortunate to have you to command us, instead of some cloak-
preening younger son of a Senator, who hasn't a head for
anything above racing. But I am afraid you will be disap
pointed here. There is little opportunity for action. Since
we recovered the fortress from the Persians — "

The leather curtains of the doorway fluttered aside, and
Eutyches led in the desert rider, Khalid.

"This is the messenger of whom we spoke, merarch," an
nounced the tribune of the Thracians. "Do you know his
speech ?"

"Sufficiently," returned Stavrakios.

He rose from his chair, and bowed courteously to the Arab,
whose glowing eyes scrutinized him with the fervor that had
first attracted Eutyches' attention.

"I am the merarch, Constantine Stavrakios," said the Gov
ernor in halting Arabic. "If you come in peace, you are
welcome. If you come in war, you shall not be harmed."

"I come from Muhammad the Prophet, with a message
bidding the Emperor of Rome seek salvation in the True
Faith," the Arab answered curtly.

He reached into the breast of his camels-hair cloak, and
drew out a small roll of parchment.

Stavrakios smiled.

"You are very sure of yourself," he said. "Who is your
master, Muhammad, that he should presume to address the
Emperor, who reigns in Christ, all-powerful and undefied ?"

Khalid looked down at the merarch almost contemptuously.
He was as tall as Basilakes, but where the Isaurian was thick
and massive he was lean and rangy, with a suggestion of

rue 3(ZD6^ FROM me veseRr 153

immense strength in his broad shoulders and loosely strung
limbs.

"My master is the Prophet of God," he replied.

"What God ?"

"The One God, Allah."

Stavrakios laughed.

"A new god, eh ? Of the making of Gods there is no
end."

He had spoken in Greek. The Arab offered him the
scroll.

"Read," admonished Khalid.

And with an involuntary look of respect, Stavrakios un
rolled the parchment and puzzled out the flowing script:

"Muhammad, the Prophet of Allah, the One God, Indivis
ible, the Compassionate, the Merciful, to the Emperor of
Rome:

"Heed ye the warning while yet there is time. Repent of
sin while salvation is promised. Accept the True Word.
Say, after the manner of the Book:

He is God alone;

God the eternal !

He begetteth not, and He is not begotten;

And there is none like unto him.

"Infidels now are they who say, 'God is the Messiah, Son
of Mary'; for the Messiah said, eOh, children of Israel ! wor
ship God, my Lord and your Lord.' Whoever shall join
other gods with God, God shall forbid him the Garden, and
his abode shall be the Fire; and the wicked shall have no
helpers.

"They surely are Infidels who say, 'God is the third of
three': for there is no God but One God: and if they refrain
not from what they say, a grievous chastisement shall light on
such of them as are Infidels.

"The Messiah, Son of Mary, is but an Apostle; other
Apostles have flourished before him; and his mother was a
just person; they both ate food. And when God shall say —

CO Jesus, Son of Mary, hast thou said unto mankind: "Take
me and my mother as two Gods, beside God ?" ' He shall say:
'Glory be unto Thee! it is not for me to say that which I
know to be not the truth. I spake not to them aught but
that which thou didst bid me — "Worship God, my Lord and
your Lord."

"And this which is written here is the Word of God, re
vealed to Muhammad the Prophet. Therefore take heed, O
Emperor, and submit, or thy power shall depart from thee,
thy people shall be put to the sword and thy lands taken
from thee."

Khalid seemed to grow in stature as the liquid phrases
tripped from the merarch *s tongue. Crispus and Eutyches
looked at each other in mingled amusement and indignation.
Stavrakios, alone, displayed no feeling. When he had fin
ished he carefully rolled up the scroll and placed it on the
table in front of him beside the sword.

"Who is Muhammad ?" he inquired.

"The Proph — "

"Yes, yes, you have told me that. What else is he ?"

"He is Lord of Mecca and Medina, master of Arabia,"
declared Khalid.

"Ah, the chief of a tribe !"

"God's Prophet," corrected the Arab. "Soon he and his
seed shall rule the world."

"He would fight us Romans ?" Stavrakios pressed gently.

The Arab's contempt was unconcealed.

"If you deny him he will rend you limb from limb. The
birds of the air shall pick your bones. The jackals shall howl
in the streets of your cities."

Eutyches interposed testily:

"The rascal deserves to be whipped, merarch. He is in
solent."

"I think not," Stavrakios answered in Greek. "He be
lieves in himself — in his master, which is the same thing.

The merarch addressed Khalid again.

THC 1(ID£1( FROM TH£ 'DCSCRT 155

"You understand that I must forward this letter to the
Emperor in Constantinople ? Very good ! I do not think
your master knows the might of Rome or he would think
twice before he ventured to insult an Emperor who has
humbled Persia in the dust."

"Persia, likewise, shall submit to the True Faith," asserted
Khalid.

"So ?" Stavrakios raised his eyebrows. "You will assail
the world ?"

"All the world must accept the Truth Faith," the Arab
affirmed proudly. "There is but one God, and Muhammad is
His Prophet !"

Crispus could no longer contain his wrath.

"The fellow is Antichrist, merarch ! I agree with
Eutyches, he should be whipped — or hanged."

"No, no," protested Stavrakios. "He is an envoy."

"Will you send that rot to the Emperor ?" Eutyches cried
hotly.

"Why not ?" answered the merarch. "Recollect, my
friends. It is addressed to Heraclius, in the first place. And
in the second place, we have just concluded a war that drained
our resources. The Empire requires a breathing space. If
I consulted my own desires I should ask nothing better
than an opportunity to march across the desert and punish
this impudent chief of a tribe we never heard of. But small
expeditions cost money as well as large. I shall advise the
Emperor to make an answer, dignified, but conciliatory.
Send this Muhammad some presents, and he will be content.
Otherwise he may go to raiding caravans, and preaching
heresy in the Syrian villages."

"Yes, you are right," Crispus agreed reluctantly.

But Eutyches objected:

"This Arab, here, is the kind to read weakness into such
a policy. So will his master."

"Let them," retorted Stavrakios. "Then we can spend
the Empire's money with clear consciences. For myself, I

156 QR€Y

am moderately interested in a man with the ingenuity to set
up a new god. We Christians have been so successful in
upsetting religions that it may be a healthy thing for us to
have a rival faith to match."

Crispus was visibly shocked.

"A ridiculous mess of words like that rival Christianity ?"
He jabbed a finger at the scroll by the sword. "Nonsense,
Stavrakios ! Divine revelation is one thing. Absurd pre
tense is another. Why, this petty sheik flouts the Son of
God openly ! He is mad."

"It may be." Stavrakios was unperturbed. "But my
duty is to keep peace and bear down on expense. So by your
leave, dux, we will speak the Arab fairly."

He turned to Khalid.

"This letter goes to the Emperor by post. I will beg him
not to unleash his wrath upon a people who foolishly presume
upon their ignorance. He is tender in his strength, and per
haps, will agree with me. In any case, return here in two
months' time, and I will have an answer for you."

The Arab's figure towered in the soft lamplight, tensed as
a strung bowstave.

"I will return," he said haughtily. "See that the Em
peror's answer be a plea for mercy. Otherwise you shall
learn that the Persians are lambs compared with the sons of
the desert."

He pointed at the sword on the table.

"You have a good blade, Roman. Show it to me."

Stavrakios hesitated, then decided to ignore the peremptori-
ness of the man's tone.

"It is a good blade, as you say," he agreed. "I took it
from a Persian, but it must have served many men before
him. You are a warrior ?"

"I lead the Koreisch in battle."

Stavrakios slowly drew the sword from its sheath. His
two officers regarded it as closely as Khalid. A grey blade,
with odd flecks and whorls in the steel, forged differently

TH€ ^IDCR FROM THC VeSCRT 157

from any weapon they had ever seen. It was very slender
and shapely, tapering perfectly from hilt to point.

The Arab's right hand went out to grasp it, but Stavrakios
shook his head.

"No, you may not touch it. Admire it, if you please.
But a sword is like a wife; it should be for one man's
use."

A gleam of appreciation showed in Khalid's eyes.

"You speak the truth, Roman. And the sword is like a
woman — like a slim grey maid. But lustful. Yes, like a
maid, but no maid. Ah, no ! She has drunk deep of many
men's blood. A maid, but — "

Crispus and Eutyches, leaning over the merarch's shoulders,
peered curiously at the shimmering symmetry of the blade.

"It has marks on it," exclaimed Eutyches.

"Yes, there is a Greek word," cried Crispus. "And a
Latin ! And those marks — "

"Are Egyptian," declared Eutyches. "St. George, what a
sword !"

"It is as old as man," said Stavrakios. "I showed it to an
armorer in the Mese. He knows steel, and he said he had
never seen a blade of such balance and temper. It swings
as light on the wrist as a centurion's vitis."

A feverish glare, covetous, threatening, supplanted the ap
preciation in Khalid's eyes.

"Will you sell the sword, Roman ?" he demanded.

"At no price," Stavrakios replied shortly.

The Arab bowed mockingly.

"Very well," he said. "I will take it from you."

Stavrakios and his officers all stared at him incredulously.

"You will take it from me ?" inquired the merarch.

"Yes."

Eutyches chuckled nervously.

"Surely, the man's mad," murmured the tribune of the
Thracians.

But Stavrakios was aware of a budding sense of hostility.

i58 QKCY

"You are welcome to try," he said as shortly as he had
spoken before. "Have you broken your fast ?"

"I do not break the bread of the Nazarenes," the Arab re
buked him. "If you will open your gates for me I will
return to my master — who shall be your master."

Stavrakios balanced the sword in his hand, struggling
against the sudden, murderous craving that had assailed him.
And as suddenly as it had risen the blood-lust succumbed to
self-discipline.

"It's not too late to hang the dog," counseled Crispus.

But Stavrakios brushed the suggestion impatiently
aside.

"Let him out the postern, Flavius," he instructed Eutyches.
And to Khalid: "You deserve imprisonment for your in
solence; but we Romans are so strong that we think no more
of words from such as you than if they were uttered by chil
dren. Go, and learn respect. If you transgress another
time I will have you whipped."

Khalid leaned forward across the table, his eyes shifting
from the merarch to the grey sword, sparkling in the lamp
light.

"When we meet again I will kill you," he said, and left
the room without waiting for his escort.

"By the Forerunner, merarch, you do ill to let him go !"
cried Crispus, as Eutyches hurried after the Arab.

"I liked his courage," answered Stavrakios, returning the
grey sword to its sheath as lovingly as he had drawn it. "A
firebrand, my Crispus. If there are more of his sort in
Arabia we shall yet have a pleasant little border war, eh ? A
chance to win promotion, and train a few young officers.
But we must not forget the Emperor's injunctions in the
meantime. Peace, if it be possible with honor. And if it
be not — why, then, my grey maiden shall not go thirsty."

Crispus frowned at the sheathed blade on the table.

"I believe that sword is a war breeder," he said.

"Crispus !" Stavrakios remonstrated jestingly. "Such
superstition is unbecoming a Christian."

THC ItlDCIt FROM THC ?>€$€&? 159

DUST billowed across the exercise ground where the cata-
phracti charged and wheeled, and the infantry tramped and
trotted, now extended in line, again arrayed in blocks of
mailed scutati and light-armed missile troops. Eutyches,
cantering up to the drawbridge where Stavrakios generally
had his post, found only Basilakes, scowling upon the busy
spectacle.

"What, Stammerer ? You aren't working with your flat-
flooted legionaries ?" cried the tribune of the Thracians.

"Don't t-talk to me about legionaries !" growled the dux.
"That's what he is fo-forever prattling about."

Eutyches grinned boyishly.

"You refuse to like the merarch, eh ? Well, by the Body-
less Ones, my friend, you can't truthfully say that we have
slipped backward in these weeks. He keeps us up to dis
cipline."

"Discipline !" rumbled Basilakes. "We always had disci
pline. All he does is to th-think up new ways to m-make us
work."

"And very good for us, too," amended Eutyches.

"Yes, like posting a p-p-picket on the desert track dur
ing drill," jeered Basilakes. "A lot of good th-that does !"

"That's where you are wrong, my Basilakes," rejoined the
cavalryman imperturbably. "The order has justified itself.
I have to report to the merarch that a considerable body of
men is in sight."

Basilakes's eyes widened somewhat, but he recovered his
pessimism without difficulty.

"A caravan," he said doggedly. "And if it wasn't, wh-
what harm could anybody from the desert do to us ?"

"I don't know," confessed Eutyches. "But tell me: where
is Stavrakios ?"

The dux pointed toward his infantry out in the middle of
the exercise ground.

"Th-there, curse him ! Move deliberately, he says. Don't

160

be in a hurry. The legions never hurried. S-S-St. George !
Whoever thinks of the legions now ? We're just foot- troops
to garrison castles and help the c-c-avalry win battles."

His scorn was so exaggerated that Eutyches was non
plussed.

"At least, Stavrakios doesn't think so," said the tribune of
the Thracian.

"N-no. All he thinks of is talk. The legions ! My
men are as good soldiers as he ever s-saw."

"Doubtless, Basilakes," chuckled Eutyches; "but I have no
time to stroke the nap of your vanity. I ride to the merarch.
Do you come, too — perhaps he will give you back your
command."

Basilakes cursed with an efficiency that drew respect from
the younger man.

"I'll c-come. He'll ruin my men, if he stays very long
with them. T-talking about not hurrying ! All battles are
won in a hurry n-nowadays."

"I see what he means, though," Eutyches answered
thoughtfully. "He's no fool, our merarch. All of us who
were in Persia noticed how Heraclius used the infantry to
good account. Men said it hadn't been done that way in
battle since Adrianople, when the Emperor Valens and 40,000
men were killed by the Goths — and that was two hundred
and fifty years ago. Personally, as a cavalryman, Basilakes,
I don't see why good infantry in solid formation shouldn't
be able to stand up to cavalry."

"D-don't you ?" sneered the dux. "You have never
fought on foot, Flavius. You don't know what it is to
have three or four thou-thousand armored men on armored
horses come crashing into you. We have our p-part, but we
aren't supposed to fight cavalry in the open. In a line,
m-maybe, where our archers and slingers can come into play,
but—"

Stavrakios had seen the two approaching, and broke off a
conversation he was holding with a group of infantry officers.

"You wanted to see me, Flavius ?" Then over his shoul-

me TSDS FROM <rm

der, as he reined around: "Remember, the main thing is to
keep your men in hand. Don't be afraid of having your
flanks turned. We place too much emphasis on that in our
tactics. A well-trained force should be able to bend back
its flanks without falling into disorder. Gather into a square,
dress shields closely and stand quiet while your missile troops
volley over the scutati. Then if the enemy horse push home
their charge you can meet them on your spear points. The
cavalry aren't made who can break good heavy infantry."

Basilakes snorted into his beard. The merarch eyed him
keenly.

"You don't believe me, dux ? Prejudice, my friend.
The dead weight of tradition on your imagination. In the
old days the legions never feared cavalry. Why should we,
who are as well armed, if we are as well trained, and possess
the same confidence in ourselves and our leaders ?"

"W-we aren't legionaries," Basilakes answered as disagree
ably as he dared. "And the legions didn't face horse-archers
in armor."

Stavrakios' jaw tightened. He started to speak, then
thought better of it.

"Put your men at ease," he said coldly. "Well, Flavius ?"

"Riders on the desert track, merarch." Eutyches saluted.
"It may be that messenger — you recall him ? We sent his
letter on to the Emperor."

"Oh, yes." Stavrakios rubbed his smooth-shaven chin, a
trick he had when he was thinking. "An answer came for
him, and some presents. The Emperor said to avoid trouble,
if possible. Yes, yes ! You say he is not alone ?"

"It is a large body, by the dust they raise."

"Humph ! We had better withdraw the troops inside the
walls. There will be less risk of an accident. Tell Crispus,
please. I will go on ahead." He called to Basilakes,
who had joined the senior officers of the infantry drungus:
"Take your men into the castle, dux. As speedily as you
can."

Riding past Basilakes on his way to communicate with

1 62 QRCY

Crispus, Eutyches was hailed in a subdued voice by the
Stammerer:

"He's a f-fine fellow to t-talk about the legions ! Run
ning behind stone walls when a parcel of Arabs show in the
desert."

Eutyches regarded Basilakes soberly.

"You are talking foolishly," the cavalryman rebuked his
friend. "It is not right to say such things of a man of
proven courage. If you disagree with Stavrakios on military
points, go to him frankly and — "

"Oh, you p-p-pat-patricians are all alike," fumed the in
fantry dux. "It's easy for a horseman to talk of footmen
meeting cavalry wi-with spears. T-try it !"

The animosity of the gibe made Eutyches vaguely uneasy.
He expressed himself so to Crispus, as they waited while the
trumpeters summoned the cataphracti from their manoeuvres,
but the Syrian declined to take the incident seriously.

"You know Basilakes as well as I, my Flavius. He must
always be resentful of something or some one. For two
months, now, it has been the merarch, and one of these days
Stavrakios will send him to Jerusalem or Antioch to cool his
heels drilling recruits for a while. But he is not a bad fel
low. I'll talk with him later, and see if I can't put some
sense in his thick skull."

"I know he's a good fellow," answered Eutyches. "That's
why I don't like him to be so silly."

"He'll come around," reiterated Crispus. "Leave him to

VI

THE Arab, Khalid, stalked into the Governor's audience
chamber with Eutyches, who perceived that Stavrakios had
made some attempt to impress the desert envoy. The mer
arch sat in a handsome chair of state, inlaid with ivory, on
a low dais. The principal officers of the fortress were ranged
behind him, glittering in armor, their shields and helmet
crests gorgeous with the several regimental colors. Stav-

rne ^/D^^ FROM me veseRr 163

rakios, himself, however, was as simply clad as the Arab. His
armor was clean, but unembellished. He sat, ruggedly erect,
in his chair, his sword across his knees, leaning his chin on
one hand, studying the strange man who had ridden twice
to Muta on the fantastic errand of an unknown petty chief.

Eutyches placed Khalid beside the table at the foot of the
dais, upon which were spread the Emperor's gifts, and stepped
closer to the merarch.

"The watchman on the gate-tower reports there are thou
sands of men behind the sandhills — foot and horse," he said
in Greek. "Khalid rode to the gate alone."

A bleak look appeared in Stavrakios' rock-hewn face.

"Man from the desert," he said directly to Khalid, "why
do you, who come as an envoy, bring with you an army, as
though you came in war ?"

He had employed the Arab dialect, and Khalid replied in
the same medium, no less directly.

"It is to be seen whether I come in peace or war. What
answer sends the Emperor of Rome to my master, the Prophet
of Allah ?"

"An answer dignified and kind," returned Stavrakios
sternly. "The answer of an indulgent parent to a wilful
child. He — "

The Arab interrupted as the merarch lifted a roll of
parchment from his knee.

"If he has answered in that tone your Emperor is lost,"
he exclaimed, equally stern. "And so are you. Do you
think we, who have the spirit of Allah breathed into our
veins, will tolerate the insolence of an infidel Nazarene ?
Emperor or no, he must accept the True Faith !"

Stavrakios frowned.

"Is it your wish to hear what the Emperor says ?" he in
quired. "If not — "

"I will hear," said Khalid, and his words were a command.

The frown of the merarch became more pronounced, but
he unrolled the parchment, and translated the courtly Latin
into Arabic, stumbling now and then in his choice of words:

1 64 QR£r

"Heraclius, Christ-loving Emperor of the Romans, to
Muhammad, called the Prophet of Allah, in Arabia beyond
the desert march:

"We have read the letter which you sent us by the favor
of the merarch Constantine Stavrakios, who governs for us
in Muta. You speak boldly, but we feel loath to believe
that you are sincere in professing doctrines which must des
tine your soul to the everlasting Hell. Think well, oh,
Muhammad, before you assail those who worship the One
God, whose Blessed Son, Jesus, was sacrificed for the sins of
the world. Blasphemy is like the ignorant words spoken by
a little child. It sounds aloud, echoing in a man's ears. But
it means nothing. It recoils upon the utterer.

"We urge that you take counsel with our servant the
merarch Stavrakios. He has our permission to send you
priests, holy men, who will expound to you the Word of
God, as Jesus revealed It upon earth. We urge you, like
wise, to beware of vain threats, lest our patience be brought
to an end, and we level against you the power of the Empire,
which reaches from sea to sea and endures from the begin
ning of time to the ages of ages. In the meantime, as a sign
of our indulgence and desire to show favor, we dispatch with
this certain gifts. Yet heed well this admonition: the
trouble-seeker receives not gifts, but blows."

Stavrakios rerolled the parchment, fastened the sealed rib
bons which bound it and extended it to the Arab.

"The Emperor's favor is great," said the merarch. "Will
you examine the presents he offers your master ?"

Khalid accepted the parchment, but his face was like a
thundercloud. He brushed aside the suggestion that he ex
amine the presents, with a contempt as violent as a blow.

"Baubles," he snarled. "Why should I look at what I can
take ? Roman, this letter is not an answer. It is words.
It is nothing. It is as empty as the wind. In Allah's Name,
then, take what you deserve — war !"

Stavrakios sprang to his feet, and in his features, too, wrath
kindled to fiery heat.

me ^IDC^ FROM me veseR? 165

"Ho, wanderer," he cried. "Do you think to insult the
Emperor, who has shown pity for your ignorance ? Why,
fool, with no more than the men I have here in Muta I can
march to the miserable city that houses your lunatic master.
And I will, if you do not humble yourself on your knees,
and give pledge to fetch this Muhammad hither to render
allegiance to the Emperor !"

But Khalid stared at him with an icy scorn that communi
cated itself to every man in the chamber.

"You will march no farther than the desert's edge,
Roman," answered the Arab. "There I will kill you — and
take your sword," he added, as an afterthought, pointing to
the long blade, its hilt of electrum dimly gleaming on the
merarch 's knees.

Basilakes surged out of the front rank of officers on the
dais.

"This is t-too much, merarch," he shouted. "Let us crucify
him on the gate-tower for a warning to his rabble."

Other officers echoed the Stammerer's plea.

"Crucify him, merarch !" "The desert thief !" "Give
him to the tormentors !" "Let horses tear him apart !"

Crispus said nothing, as did Eutyches; but the dux of the
horse showed plainly that he was restrained solely by his
sense of respect for his commander. As for the tribune of
the Thracians, he was conscious of a renewed feeling of ad
miration for Khalid. The Arab never moved a muscle, stand
ing with arms folded, his eyes haughtily intent on those who
clamored for his life.

Stavrakios waved the officers to silence. His anger, now,
was transferred from Khalid to them.

"You have forgotten that you are Romans," he said.
"Also, it is to be supposed, Christians. This man, whatever
his impertinence, is an envoy. He is entitled to go from
Muta in safety. It shall be for Flavius Eutyches to see him
forth of the gates."

The merarch pointed his forefinger at Khalid.

"I shall wait until the morning," he continued. "Then I

1 66 QR€Y

shall march forth, and harry you until you make amends for
this insane defiance. By Hercules, man, the Empire has too
much work to do, too many tasks for its attention, to waste
time with such as you and your master, mouthing of gods
born of wine dreams, I doubt not; but if you compel us to
action, we will take up the sword."

A sudden fury of spiritual rage vibrated through Khalid's
tall frame.

"Infidel, you have mocked Allah, made light of the
Prophet," he threatened. "For your men there will be choice
of the True Faith or the sword. For you — "

He raised his arm in a gesture of denunciation, and stalked
from the room, as regardless of Eutyches as when he left the
first time. Hurrying after him, the tribune of the Thracians
was oddly disturbed, tingling under the impact of a will
power he sensed to be utterly unchecked, malignant, over
weening, blasting all opposition from its path. Behind them
resounded a babble of voices in the audience chamber, where
a score of officers besought Stavrakios to lead them to battle.
But the Arab ignored it as completely as he did his escort or
the stone walls surrounding him. He might have been out
in the desert, alone with the faith which made him fearless
of innumerable enemies.

He spoke once to Eutyches as the gate was opened for him.

"I shall be here in the morning. Bid your sheik carry
his sword."

A short while afterward the sentries on the walls heard
shouts of exultation behind the nearer sandhills, and as eve
ning drew on myriad campfires pricked the dusk with their
flames.

VII

MUTA seethed and hummed. Trampling of hoofs on the
cobbles of the stable court; braying of trumpets in the in
fantry barracks; whining of engines under test on the walls;
clanging of weapons in the salute as the standards were car-

THC 1(!D€1t FROM TH8 T>£S£Rr 167

ried down from the sacellum. Inner court and outer court
were aboil, and in the open gate Stavrakios stood with his
officers, issuing final orders for the battle, while from the
sandhills on the desert's edge the Arab raiders watched and
raised at intervals their shrill, triumphant invocation to Allah.

"One numerus of foot to be left in garrison," the merarch
was saying. "Which is it to be, Basilakes ?"

"Th-thirteenth Syrians," scowled the Stammerer.

"Very good." Stavrakios was briskly confident. "That
leaves you three numeri. You will march out after the horse,
and take position in line, with intervals between each
numerus. Your left flank will be protected by the fortress
— you will be near enough for the engines to command the
intervening space. Your right is to rest on that dry water
course, which slices the southeast corner of the exercise
ground; a few archers will prevent the enemy from getting
across it. You should be able to hold that line very easily,
until we — "

"You m-mean we are to stay back, and not get into the
f-fight, merarch ?" complained Basilakes.

Stavrakios bent hard eyes upon the Isaurian.

"You are to hold your position, unless I order you up.
Your part in the battle is to provide a defense for the horse
to rally behind, in case we are unduly pressed. There must
be five or six thousand Arabs out there, as many mounted
as afoot. They will outnumber us considerably."

"I th-thought you wanted us to fight like the legions,"
sneered Basilakes.

"Yes," Stavrakios answered steadily, "I want you to fight
like legionaries — and to obey orders like legionaries. When
the right moment comes, I will give the order for you to ad
vance. That will be when the enemy commence to break.
Until they have broken it would be madness for us to com
mit our entire force to the attack. Am I clear ?"

Basilakes nodded sourly.

"And if you are attacked in earnest, you are to form
square, not hold your line."

1 68 QK€Y

"Old tactics and n-new tactics," commented the Isaurian.
"It ought t-to be interesting."

"It will be successful, if you obey orders." Stavrakios con
cealed his impatience. "I expect the Arabs will be shattered
by our first real push. After that your numeri shall have
their chance. Now, Crispus !" He turned to the dux of
the cavalry. "Your Ghassanians to the fore as skirmishers.
Let them try out the enemy. Main formation according to
established tactics. Sound trumpets !"

The hoarse blasts of the tubae re-echoed between the walls;
a racket of orders from centurions and decurions mounted
the numeri and shifted them into column of centuries. Then
Crispus raised his sword in signal to march, and the Ghas
sanians clattered across the drawbridge, their cloaks of orange-
and-green fluttering behind them, orange plumes waving from
light steel headpieces, their brown faces wreathed with
smiles, voices raised in the same shrill note that distinguished
the enemy.

"Christ for the Emperor !"

Inner court and outer court roared response:

"Christ for the Emperor !"

And on the sandhills there was a restless swaying movement
amongst the brown-cloaked masses of riders and footmen,
and an answering shout reached faintly the walls of the
fortress:

"La illah ilia Allah ! Muhammad resoul Allah !"

Muta vomited men. The Ghassanians spread out across
the ground, providing a screen under shelter of which the
cataphracti manoeuvred smartly into the traditional battle
order of the Eastern Empire. Eutyches' Thracians and the
Paphlygonians were the first line of the centre, ranked four
deep. In rear of them the Cappadocians took position. On
the left, and slightly advanced, were the Fifth Syrians; the
Cilicians constituted the right flank. Stavrakios, with a
guard of three decuries, had his post between the first and
second lines of the centre. Crispus was with him.

And in the meantime, Basilakes had arranged his infantry

THC 1(ID£?( FROM TH€ VeStRF 169

in the order prescribed by the merarch. The scutati in the
front line, archers and slingers in rear. It was an imposing
spectacle. Stavrakios, drawing his long, grey sword, con
templated it with a distinct glow of satisfaction. The sun
shone brightly on the array, every century in place, each
numerus marked by its distinctive colors, the Eagles lifting
above the oblong blocks of spear points.

"Khalid is not so ready to make good his boasts," remarked
the merarch. "Prick him to action, my Crispus. Loose the
Ghassanians upon him."

'Til ride with them, merarch," Crispus answered eagerly.
"They are stout fellows. One stiff charge should tear that
rabble to pieces."

Stavrakios nodded assent.

"Very likely. Well support you."

The trumpets of the irregulars blew the summons for
column of centuries, and they wheeled out of line with the
same cheerful, light-hearted spirit that had carried them
shouting over the drawbridge.

Eutyches, on the flank of his Thracians, waved enviously
to Crispus, grumbling to himself that the Ghassanians should
have the only real chance of the day.

"Christ for the Emperor !" shouted the centuries.

On the sandhills there was a definite surge forward, and
the Arabs flooded out to meet the attack, the foot in the
centre, the horse on each wing. And as they advanced, they
yelped with hysterical fervor, brandishing swords and lances:

"La illah ilia Allah! Muhammad resoul Allah !"

"They will fight, after all," Eutyches called to the merarch.

"Yes, this is better," agreed Stavrakios, pushing his horse
alongside the tribune. "We shall be able to cut them up to
the barber's taste, eh ? Be prepared to charge when —
Ha, well struck !"

Crispus had torn into the Arab centre like an axe-blade
sinking into a tree. The Romans murmured appreciation to
one another, expecting to see the Ghassanians rip straight
through the mob of footmen and emerge on the far side of

the Arab array; but nothing like that happened. The Arab
wings folded in upon the attack, there was a flurry of steel
— and the Ghassanians were swallowed up. A lance point
flickered here and there, a few swords whirled in air. Other
wise the numerus was gone, disposed of with a celerity that
made the Romans gasp. It was as if a great flame had licked
out of the desert and consumed the irregulars. But Stav-
rakios was not dismayed.

"We have soldiers to face," he observed. "Flavius, you
are dux of the horse. Take forward the first line. I will
support."

Eutyches saluted mechanically, his wits still staggered by
the amazing fury of the onslaught that had devoured three
hundred and fifty wild riders in a single bite. Poor Crispus !
And he had envied the Syrian a few moments since. Well,
the Ghassanians must have taken toll, at least. And the
Arabs would learn that it was one thing to meet irregulars,
and another task to be pounded by cataphracti, wave follow
ing wave.

His trumpets brayed the signal to trot, and he saw that the
Arabs had restored their original formation, infantry in the
centre, groups of cavalry on the wings. His Thracians and
Paphlygonians were in line, instead of column. They would
not thrust into the enemy, but hammer at his front, pound
ing, pounding. After them the second line would sweep into
the fight, then the onslaughts of the two flanking numeri.
A recurrent series of shocks. The troops did not exist that
could support such tactics. Success was simply a question
of leadership, and Stavrakios was a leader in a thousand.

The trumpets clanged again. A thunder of hoofs acknowl
edged the summons. Dust billowed overhead. He saw a
windrow of bodies on the ground, Ghassanians and their Arab
brethren of the desert, hundreds of bodies. His horse's
hoofs squelched in human flesh. He saw an Eagle buried
under a heap of corpses. He saw a line of fierce, brown
faces, a rank of spearpoints, unwavering. He saw a storm
of arrows, heard the shafts whisper by his ear. A green

TH€ 2(7D6^ FROM me <D£S£Rr 171

flag waved in front of him, and he hacked a path toward it,
fending and slashing, guiding his horse with his knees, both
hands occupied with sword and shield.

Enemies swarmed around him. He had never encountered
foes like these Arabs. The Persians had been brave, but the
desert men seemed to welcome death. They hurled them
selves upon his point; they sprang up behind the cataphracti,
and pulled the armored troopers down with themselves be
neath the frenzied horses. He reached the green standard,
and slew the greybearded warrior who held it; but before he
could seize the staff another greybeard had caught it.
Eutyches pursued relentlessly, and hewed one of the man's
hands off at the wrist. The greybeard clutched the standard
tighter with his remaining hand and when Eutyches slashed
that off, too, the old warrior hugged the staff between his
stumps, and a quavering cry — "La illah il — " — brought
assistance, which harried the Roman until the standard could
be saved.

The tribune was astonished to note that the Arabian horse
had not come into action against him. He had been pinned
down by the dauntless infantry, any two of whom were will
ing to die if they could take a Roman with them. And he
was secretly relieved when thudding hoofs announced the
arrival of Stavrakios with the second line. The Arabs swayed
visibly under this impact; their centre yielded, and as their
wings started to fold in about the main body of Roman
cataphracti the two flanking detachments Stavrakios had
posted, the Fifth Syrians and the Cilicians, delivered assaults
upon the enemy horse.

The battle became a whirlpool, blind, baffling, temporarily
incoherent, despite the leaders' efforts, a vast huddle of horse
and foot, revolving about the green standard which was the
rallying-point of the Arabs. Then two things happened.
Stavrakios, his grey sword a herald of death, slew the third
bearer of the green standard; and simultaneously, Khalid, at
the head of a body of Arab cavalry, destroyed the Fifth
Syrians on the Roman left, and drove a frightful blow into

the flank of Eutyches' Thracians, heavily engaged with the
Arab infantry.

The confusion was frightful, and Stavrakios, sensing the
trouble, shouted to Eutyches for a trumpeter.

"Sound the retreat," ordered the merarch. "We must re
tire behind the infantry. Basilakes can give us a breathing-
spell."

The tribune of the Thracians craned his neck for a trump
eter, and peering rearward, he saw the Roman infantry ad
vancing in full battle panoply.

"Too late, Stavrakios," he said. "Basilakes is marching to
join us."

Stavrakios paled.

"The fool," he grated. "The blind, heedless fool. Now,
indeed are we committed, Flavius. We must forget tactics.
This is a butchery. The side that can slay the most — "

But a torrent of Arab infantry poured between them, and
Eutyches heard no more, put to it to extricate the wreckage
of his numeri from the persistent onslaughts of Khalid's horse.
What saved him was the diversion created by the arrival of
Basilakes and the Roman infantry. The Arabian horse
ceased the attack upon the cataphracti, leaving them entirely
to their infantry, and launched a series of charges against
Basilakes. At first, the Arabs were beaten off by the hail of
arrows and stones discharged by the missile troops, and the
unflinching advance of the scutati continued; but Basilakes
had left his flanks exposed the instant he abandoned the posi
tion Stavrakios had assigned to him, and he had similarly
ignored the mer arch's injunction to fight in mass formation.
Consequently, Khalid worked around into his rear, and rode
rough-shod over his left numerus, the Eighth Syrians. The
Ninth Syrians and the Isaurians tried to close up and form
square when this happened, but they were so hampered by
their flying comrades that the best they could do was to face
about, and retire backwards — or advance backwards —
upon their own horse.

Within an hour from the joining of battle the two armies

rne ^me^ FROM me vestR? i73

were locked in a staggering combat that oscillated in re
sponse to the varying fortunes of the moment. The Romans
were packed into several partially disintegrated groups, sur
rounded by swirling hordes of Arabs, horse and foot. Better
armed, better trained, they were now at a disadvantage in
face of their opponents' greater agility and numbers.

Stavrakios rode up to Basilakes, as the dux panted into the
diminished circle of cataphracti, and the men in the mer-
arch's path shrank away from the ferocity of his face.

"Fool," exclaimed Stavrakios. "Do you know that you
have robbed us of victory, perhaps of every man's life ?"

"I th-thought you couldn't disengage," Basilakes answered
sulkily. "Y-you were all swallowed up like the — "

"I was on the point of disengaging when you advanced.
And if you had to disobey my order and advance, why must
you disobey my other order, and advance in line. Oh, you
fool!"

"I d-didn't bungle this battle," retorted Basilakes. "Y-you
mix tactics, and expect — "

"I am tired of your stubbornness," roared the merarch.

His grey sword flashed shoulder-high, humming expect
antly — and Basilakes' head toppled from its neck, lopped
clean just under the helmet's chin-strap. Eutyches, forcing
a path through the sweating, bewildered press of cavalry and
infantry, was in time to see the startled expression mirrored
in the Stammerer's eyes.

"A Roman officer must obey orders," cried Stavrakios.
"Let this be a lesson to all. We should have nothing to fear
from our foes, if men did as they were told."

Eutyches found himself expressing solemn dissent.

"He deserved your stroke, merarch; but — I'm not so sure
we can blame Basilakes alone for this. These desert men are
no ordinary fighters. St. George ! What can you do against
men who -want to die ?"

"Yes," Stavrakios admitted mournfully. "They have an
idea. And as I told Basilakes: an idea is the most powerful
weapon a man can wield. They believe in themselves."

i74

"So do we," protested the tribune, almost frightened by
the Governor's gloomy mood. "We can fight our way to
the fortress."

"Beaten by a mob of desert raiders !" murmured Stavrakios.

An arrow droned out of the air, and lodged in a chink of
his mail; he plucked it free, and seemed to regain a measure
of confidence from the circumstance.

"Yes, yes, we can fight our way to the castle," he exclaimed.
"That is best. You and I will hold the rear — you and I and
Grey Maiden, here."

His voice swelled in a bellow of command.

"Close up, men ! We'll lure the Arabs under the walls —
give the engines some work to do. Close up ! Slow does it.
Remember ! 'Rome's pace, Rome's race.' "

VIII

SYRIANS, Isaurians, Paphlygonians, Cappadocians, Cilicians,
Thracians, labored frantically to free themselves of the re
morseless concentric pressure Khalid was applying. They
were regular troops, inured to discipline; but Eutyches could
not help hearing the muttered complaints and oaths of dis
gust — "Romans! There's too much talk of Romans!"
"What have we to do with Rome ?" "Our officers got us
into this." "Rome's race ? It's your race, Michael — and
mine !" "Christ with us, what a muddle !" "Hurry, there,
you bow-legged Greeks. Give someone else a breath of life."
"Well, brothers, we didn't enlist to fight a pack of maniacs."
"No, nor to have our officers killing each other." "I tell
you those old ones with the green flag were sorcerers."
"What ? No doubt of it, Simonides saw a Daemon when
the — "

Gradually, the merarch organized the retirement. The in
fantry led, an oblong of scutati crammed with missile troops.
After them came the cavalry, in two separate columns,
numeri all jumbled together, men whose horses were killed
running to fill the gaps in the infantry's Shield-wall. The

THC ^IDC^ FROM THC 'DCSCRT 175

footmen marched along steadily, while the horse made short,
swift dashes to hinder the pursuit. They had caught the
Arabs temporarily off-balance when the retreat began;
Khalid's original dispositions had been planned to stop the
attack of the Romans and pin them down. But he shifted
his arrangements with a speed that dazzled the plodding
Romans. His infantry pecked at the flanks of the oblong
of footmen; and his riders assailed the dwindling columns of
cataphracti.

Twice and again, Khalid flung himself at Stavrakios, but
the merarch was fighting with consummate skill, careful to
protect Eutyches' column at need, covering the harrassed in
fantry, declining the openings the enemy offered to lure him
away from his supports. The Romans were within reach of
the drawbridge when the onslaughts of the Arabs abruptly
ceased, and Khalid rode alone into the space that separated
the two armies.

"Ho, Roman," he called to Stavrakios, "I have beaten you
fairly. Will you not stand up to me, as one warrior to an
other, and suffer me to prove I did not boast idly when I
said I should possess your sword ?"

Stavrakios hesitated. His conscience, as a commander,
bade him refuse to risk himself in such a personal combat;
the day had been sufficiently disastrous. But his soldier's
pride yearned for the satisfaction victory in the duel would
assure him, and he told himself that it would hearten his
men, who sadly needed encouragement. Moreover, he
trusted not only in his own ability, but in the uncanny power
of his sword. Grey Maiden had drunk deep that day, an
elephant's draught. His right arm was red to the elbow;
the sword dripped blood as he sat his horse pondering.

The whine of a catapult decided him. Whatever hap
pened, the survivors of his garrison were safe. So he slowly
wiped the sword's hilt and his right hand clean, and trotted
out from the ranks of the cataphracti.

"Stand to it, Arab," he said. "You are a brave foe, but
this Maid of mine will not be denied."

i76

Khalid kept his eyes glued on the merarch's.

"Perhaps," he retorted, "but Allah is greater than any
sword — even that sword. She would never fail a man as
eight blades have failed me this day, shivered on Roman
armor."

"All swords shiver on Roman armor," answered Stavrakios.

He jumped his horse forward, and struck at Khalid's head;
but the Arab was watchful, and parried the blow. The
blades clattered again, rattling and clinking, hammering on
armor, ringing clear on each other, whispering hateful mes
sages as they circled and swung. Khalid fought manfully,
yet his blows were avoided or fended, while Stavrakios drew
blood twice: once, from a slash under the armpit, and again,
from a cut in the arm. Then, so swiftly that no man saw
how it happened, the merarch's sword slid off Khalid's blade
and chopped down upon his horse's neck. The beast leaped
convulsively, and fell, and Khalid rolled clear.

"Yield," cried Stavrakios.

But Khalid scrambled to his feet, and replied with a stroke
which the Roman caught on Grey Maiden. A twist of
Stavrakios' arm, and the Arab's sword splintered into frag
ments.

"Now, yield or die," commanded Stavrakios.

A cheer burst from the Romans. A sob of anguish
escaped the Arabs.

"No, you die, Roman," gasped Khalid.

He stooped, and snatched from the ground a stone as big
as his fist, and in the one motion hurled it full in the mer
arch's face. It struck Stavrakios on the temple, beneath the
helmet-brim, with a crunching sound like the breaking of a
very thick egg shell. And Stavrakios swayed on his saddle,
and pitched backwards, armor creaking and clanging, the
same look of surprise in his staring eyes that Eutyches had
seen in the decapitated head of Basilakes; and the sword, Grey
Maiden, as if denying responsibility for his end, slipped from
his nerveless fingers and flew through the air to tinkle in the
coarse gravel at Khalid's feet.

THE 'RIDe'K FROM <TH£ Df$fR<r 177

Unhurried, lovingly, the Arab bent and fitted his fingers
to the grooves of the hilt. A river of fire ran up his arm,
reviving his tired body. He sprang erect.

"La illah ilia Allah," he screamed. "There is no God but
God ! And Muhammad is his Prophet !"

A howl of approval from his followers drowned the sough
and whine of the wall-engines, until he flourished the sword
in a gesture for silence.

"Ho, you, young Roman !" He pointed the blade at
Eutyches, hurrying the cataphracti into the fortress. "Tell
your Emperor that this is the first of many blows the
Prophet will deal him. Tell him that Khalid, the Sword of
Allah, will smite him with this sword of the Old Ones. And
when I come again I will break down your castle, stone by
stone, yes, and Jerusalem and Antioch and the other cities
shall conform to Allah or be given to fire and the sack."

IX

THE Magister Militum per Orientem had just come from the
baths; he felt very pink and comfortable and easy-minded.
But a frown, that was very nearly a frown of displeasure,
settled upon his plump features as he looked up from his
tablets to the young officer the secretary had ushered in.

"Flavius Eutyches ? Oh, yes, tribune of the — humph —
Your uncle is the Senator Manlius Junius Eutyches ? Yes,
yes, of course ! You are the senior surviving officer from
this regrettable affair at Muta ? Yes, yes ! Your uncle has
written me. I have — ah — been favored with a communi
cation from the Emperor's own hand. Most regrettable.
The merarch — what's his name — Stavrakios ? — Ah, yes,
yes ! Bishop Cyril's nephew. I served with his father in
Africa. An opinionated man — the elder Stavrakios, that
is. But I was about to say: he seems to have been unduly
rash, eh ? Had trouble with his officers ? And it was quite
unnecessary to embroil himself with a pack of passing cara
van raiders. And having done so, then, to get himself killed

and his garrison nearly exterminated ! I don't understand
it. Most peculiar, most peculiar ! The Emperor had sent
presents, too, for the desert people. It needs explaining. A
bad business. The Empire's prestige is endangered."

Eutyches gritted his teeth, and blurted into the oily flow
of words.

"More than the Empire's prestige is endangered. There is a
new religion being preached in Arabia. It makes fighting-
men out of the worst desert-scum. I never saw such fighting-
men ! Why, the Persians — "

"Blessed Timothy, don't get excited," pleaded the Magis-
ter Militum. "You know, you are really talking nonsense.
New religions are often preached, and schisms, I regret to
say, raise their heads every year. Yes, yes, very regrettable,
too ! But who ever heard of a religion making fighting-
men ? Now, now ! Religion makes priests."

Eutyches glared at him — the nephew of a Senator might,
upon occasion, presume so far with a porky Magister Militum,
who owed his job to a cabal of women in the Imperial Court.

"And there's a story sweeping the desert, now — my spies
brought it to me. The Arabs say that this sword Khalid took
from poor Stavrakios is a holy sword, and they call Khalid the
Sword of Allah — the Sword of God. They say he can't be
defeated while he carries that sword, that they will overrun
all of Orientem and Egypt and Africa."

The Magister Militum studied his polished fingernails.

"Let them try, tribune. Let them try. If they will run
their heads against our walls we can't be blamed, can we ?
It will be an excellent opportunity to show your mettle.
I — ah — forgot to mention that I have been requested to
appoint you Governor of Muta — a slight recognition of your
efficiency in bringing off the survivors of that preposterous
affair."

"But it wasn't preposterous," Eutyches objected desper
ately. "It was the hardest-fought battle I ever saw. If it
hadn't been for Basilakes' mistake, we might have won; and
it was owing entirely to Stavrakios that we saved any frag-

rm 'sjoe^ FROM me T>eseR<r 1/9

ments after that. I tell you, the merarch was absolutely
justified in — "

"Yes, yes, you are very loyal," the Magister Militum soothed
him. "A good quality in a young officer, I always say. But
don't lose your head over a trifling border fight. And stick
to the tactics. Always stick to the tactics. Men wiser than
you and I devised them, and they have been tested for hun
dreds of years. You can't go wrong if you fight by the
tactics. Oh, yes, and leave the desert people alone. Better
keep your men under cover, I should say. We'll have to
leave you pretty weak."

"Weak ?" Eutyches almost shouted. "Do you mean you
won't recruit the garrison up to strength ?"

"Why — ah — no. We are paring expenses at all points,
and it has been decided to strike off or consolidate all numeri
considerably below authorized strength. The Empire is at
peace — "

"It won't be, very long," said Eutyches grimly.

The Magister Militum permitted himself a moderate
amount of disfavor.

"You are a young man to be so opinionated. Take an
older man's advice, and curb a bad habit. Enthusiasm for
your work is all very well, but when it becomes confirmed —
Humph ! Well, we'll say no more about it. Keep your
men in hand, and don't get into trouble. As I was saying,
the Empire is at peace. Trade is very brisk here in Antioch.
The merchants are much encouraged. No one thought we
should recover so quickly from the Persian War; and if you
hotheads will manage to keep the border at peace we may
reach a point where taxes won't consume a third of our in
come, eh ? That's the great idea ! No country can be
happy with high taxes."

"No country can be happy in slavery," returned Eutyches.
"But I won't keep you. I — I — Won't you consider what
I've said?"

"Consider it ?" repeated the Magister Militum, much re
lieved that his caller was going. "Why, I'll be glad to. And

i8o

you consider what I've told you, eh ? A fair exchange."

Outside the Praetorium the young tribune stood for a mo
ment contemplating the enormous city, still showing traces
of the Persian occupation which had wrought more harm
than all the centuries that had passed since Seleucus
founded it.

"They won't understand," he told himself unhappily.
"They won't see ! He talks of ideas ! Ideas of money-
chasing ! Stavrakios was right. Those desert men have an
idea that means something — and they believe in themselves.
That fat jelly-fish in the Prsetorium only believes that the
world owes him a soft living. He would have kicked me out
in short order, if I hadn't a Senatorial family behind me.
Yes, there's something wrong with the Empire. Maybe it's
because we don't believe in it — and some of us don't believe
in Christianity — and we are jealous of each other.

"By the Forerunner ! If the Persians could do that — "
he surveyed a blackened area blocks in extent — "what could
Khalid do ? Ah, the one mistake Stavrakios made was in
fighting him ! The Arabs had an idea — and now they
have a sword."

He walked disconsolately to the barracks where his escort
awaited him, and to the chagrin of the decury ordered them
at once into saddle. The least he could do in the circum
stances was to return to his post. There might be a chance
to give warning before the desert men launched their great
attack. And if his superiors were heedless, there was the
more reason for him to keep a lookout for them. He took
hope from the reflection. If enough men believed in — in —
the Empire — Christ — duty, say — anything — the dis
ciples of Allah might be repelled. A thought worth cling
ing to.

Alas, Flavius Eutyches lived to see the Sword of Allah
supreme from Alexandria, in Egypt, to the Taurus Moun
tains; and in his old age he who had warded the desert march
defended the Cilician Gates.

TH€ 1(ID€1( FROM TH€ -DfSfRT 181

"Believe in yourselves," he used to tell his men. "Ah, if
we only had an idea, a symbol, if only we all believed in one
thing ! But believe in yourselves — if you can't believe in
anything else."

Chapter VI

THORD'S WOOING

THIS is the story of the coming into Iceland of Elin, the
Ireland woman, who was called the Wise; and Aslak
Flatnose, the Baresark; and the sword Grey Maiden;
and of what happened therefrom.

There was a man named Geir Bj ami's son, who dwelt in
the Hornfirth dales and owned farms and had money out all
the way east to Berufirth and west to Skeidara Sands and
The Side. He was large-bodied and lusty, and men called
him the Wealthy. He took to wife Rannveiga Kolbein's
dotter, sister to Aud who married Herjolt the Hairy, who
dwelt at Borgarhaven, close by the Hornfirth dales, and who
was the only man in that part of the country who could
match Geir's power. They were fast friends.

Rannveiga bore Geir a son, who was named Bjarni. She
fell sick of a fever in his sixth winter and died. Aud bore
Herjolt several sons, and also, a girlchild, whose name was
Astrid. After Astrid was born Herjolt and Geir used to talk
over the ale of wedding her in due time to young Bjarni.

"It might be said that she could not do better," Geir would
remark, "since all my property will go to Bjarni."

"There will be some few marks in my girl's portion," Her
jolt would answer. "But see her out of swaddling-clothes
before we set the betrothal feast, and handfast on it."

182

THORD'S W001NQ 183

Geir had his household managed by thralls and serving-
women after Rannveiga died; the boy, Bjarni, was brought
up by such folk, and they found him a handful. He was
large like his father, but evil-tempered and spoiled, for none
would say him nay, and his eyes were very small and bright
and separated only by the jutting beak of his nose. His
color was red, and for this reason he was usually called the
Red, until in afterlife he won the name of the Grasping.

Now, as the Norns spun life's threads, the year following
Rannveiga 's death the Fall gales were unusually severe, and a
ship was driven ashore between the skerries on the seaside of
Geir's stead by Hornfirth. Men saw the wreck, and sent
hastily to summon Geir; but when he reached the shore the
ship was gone, and of its company but two gained the land,
and they unconscious, more drowned than alive, battered by
the fierce waves and the sharp edges of the rocks. One was
a man and the other a woman.

Geir bade carry them up to the skalli, and when they were
laid by the firelight it was seen that the woman was young
and fair, with white skin and hair blue-black like the un
derside of a crow's wing. Her garments were of rich stuffs,
and she wore a gold chain around her neck and on her wrists
golden bracelets. The man was a rough-seeming carl, burly,
thick-thewed, taller even than Geir; his nose had been broken,
and was caved into the middle of his face. But what im
pressed the folk was the splendor of his weapons, a great
axe of bluish steel, fastened by a thong to his wrist, and a
sword tied into its sheath, and the fact that he wore neither
helm nor body-armor, no more than leather breeches and
shoon and a jerkin to his back.

"Strange shipmates," quoth Geir. "It is true this fellow
may have shocked his mail to lighten him in the water, but I
see no rust-stains or buckle-rips on his jerkin, and he has the
look of a common carl, while she — "

He looked long at the woman, and wet and bedraggled
though she was, her fairness kindled a sparkle in his eye and
started a little pulse a-hammering in his temple.

1 84

" — she has the appearance of a chief's daughter," he con
cluded.

Then he ordered a serving-woman to fetch hot broth, and
turned his attention again to the man. Curiosity prompted
him to untie the sheath- thongs and bare the seafarer's blade;
a gasp of admiration escaped his lips as the firelight flickered
on the lean, grey steel.

"A maal-sword," he muttered. "It is covered with
runes !"

Whether it was the heat of the fire or what, the stranger
opened his eyes at this instant, and seeing his sword in Geir's
hand, snatched it back and scrambled to his feet, glaring
savagely about the circle of tenants and thralls. Axe in one
hand, sword in the other, he tottered against one of the pil
lars that upheld the skalli roof.

"Who takes Grey Maiden, takes my life," he growled
hoarsely. "Back, carls ! Or come ! I care not, mailed or
unmailed, so you give me room for weapon-swinging."

There was a wild scramble to get out of the way. Geir,
alone, held his ground.

"A Baresark ?" the chief questioned coolly.

"And an outlaw," the stranger boasted.

"You are not an Icelander," said Geir. "And I do not
think I have seen you in Norway."

The Baresark laughed shortly.

"I am an Orkneyman. My name is Aslak — Flatnose folk
call me."

"What errand have you in Iceland ?"

"None. I fled after a man-slaying. A Sudreyar ship was
sailing, and I boarded her. She was Iceland-bound. That is
all."

The thrall-woman re-entered with two bowls of broth, and
Geir took one from her, and offered it to Aslak.

"You need not fear us," he said. "As for your sword, I
admired it. It is a king's weapon."

"It is Aslak's weapon," retorted the Orkneyman. "You

THORD'S WOOINCf i8y

did wrong to bare it. There is bad luck for some
one when Grey Maiden is sheathed thirsty."

"Grey Maiden, you call it ?" questioned Geir. And added
impatiently: "But drink, carl, drink ! Is your belly full
that you refuse good broth ?"

Aslak accepted the bowl rather suspiciously. Behind Geir
the serving-folk were working over the shipwrecked woman,
and as the Baresark raised the broth to his lips he regarded
their efforts with no less suspicion.

"Gently, there, gently," he admonished.

"What is she to you ?" Geir asked quickly.

The Orkneyman scowled.

"You are a great questioner. Well, I will take your ques
tions in order. Yes, my sword is called Grey Maiden — ask
me not why; he I had it from called it so, and he said the
man who owned it before him gave it the same name. . . .
No, my belly is not full — and I am suspicious of all who
tamper with my weapons. . . . The wench, there ? She is
nothing to me, but a fair lass."

A low, dazed voice, stammering broken queries, announced
her return to consciousness. Geir spun around, peered down
at the flower-white face and re-addressed himself to Aslak,
heedless of the Baresark's insolence.

"But you know who she is ? Maid or wife ? Free or
thrall ?"

Aslak shrugged his shoulders.

"Her name is Elin. She came from Ireland with her
grandfather — in my case, I think. They were a kingly
couple."

"Outlaws !" Geir's voice thickened. "Humph ! And
orphaned. She must have shelter."

Aslak tossed his empty bowl to one of the thralls.

"Shelter ?" he repeated hardily. "Yes, and kindly treat
ment, becoming one freeborn."

"How do we know she is freeborn ?" demanded Geir.
"You say she is Irish. She may be an escaped thrall."

1 86 QR£r

"Look at her," commanded the Baresark.

She had been propped in a sitting position, and a thrall-
woman was feeding her broth from a horn-spoon. Her eyes,
grey-blue, fringed by long, black lashes, flitted fearfully from
face to face, resting at last with an expression of relief upon
Aslak's.

"Where are we ?" she asked, stumbling over the un
familiar Norse speech.

Geir answered for the Orkneyman, naming himself.

"Have you friends in Iceland ?" he inquired smoothly.

She shook her head.

"I fled with my grandfather from Dublin in the night.
There was a Sudreyar ship, and the Sudreyar men told us
that if we journeyed to Norway the heathen would make
slaves of us. So we took their advice, and sailed on with
them for Iceland. Here we thought we should be safe from
our foes."

She shuddered, and Geir licked his lips.

"But in Iceland we are what you call heathen, too," he re
minded her. "You are an outlander here, without the law.
You cannot even prove that you are freeborn."

Aslak stooped, and lifted one of Elin's wrists.

"She is a gold-wearer," he pointed out. "Who has seen a
thrall — "

"Here I am chief," Geir interrupted, with his first show of
authority. "The maid is my prize, cast up on my property.
I might enthrall her, but she is fair to look upon, and I am
a just man. My bower is empty, I am lonely and she has
the making of a good housekeeper. Come ! What say you,
Elin? You can go farther, and be granted poorer accom
modations."

She stared at him, wide-eyed, and a second shudder
wrenched her body.

"Look about you," Geir invited, waving his hand to em
brace the contents of the skalli. "Here you shall order all
under me. Where will you find better quarters, more con
sideration ?"

THORD'S WOOINQ 187

"Nowhere," sneered Aslak. "For you are his, whether you
will or no. By the Hammer, a thrall in a golden collar !"

"Is it so ?" she appealed direct to Geir.

"It is not," he answered, righteously indignant. "I have
said I will take you to wife, although I might enthrall you.
Belike, that was what the Sudreyar men intended for you
when they reached Iceland."

"What shall I do ?" she cried to Aslak.

He fingered the hilt of the sword Grey Maiden, and swept
the skalli with a speculative eye.

"Do ?" he ruminated. "Why, one of two things. Accept
his offer, or, if you like, come with me. I don't urge you
either way, lass. If you stay, you'll lie soft and never hunger.
If you come with me — "

"Where would she go ?" mocked Geir.

"Oh, I have driven a wolf out of his den before this,"
Aslak asserted confidently. "But the choice is yours, Elin.
I'm not urging you, remember. You'll bed rough with me,
and travel far. I'm no handy man with a woman. Please
yourself."

Geir frowned at the Baresark.

"You do ill to cross me, carl," he threatened. "The maid
is mine."

"As to that, I helped her ashore," returned Aslak. "But
for me she would have died in the waves. If she is anyone's
prize in law, she is mine."

Elin leaped up like a hunted thing, exhaustion forgotten
in the desperate issue which fronted her.

"Is it my fate to belong to a man who is strange to me ?"
she cried wildly. "Let me go, both of you, and I will work
the nails off my fingers for whoever will give me a roof and
bread."

"Ah, but you are a fair woman !" objected Aslak. "Your
kind don't work in still-rooms and brew-vats and dairies."

"All women marry strange men," said Geir. "My first
wife scarcely knew me when her father brought me to her
on the cross-bench at the betrothal feast."

1 88

"There is much to be said in that direction," Aslak agreed
largely. "And a woman must always be tagged to a man."

She cast her eyes from one to the other of them. Geir
kept his eyes glued on her face, but the Orkneyman fol
lowed her brooding gaze as it studied, first Geir, then him
self. And when finally she glanced sideways at the high-
seat and the cross-bench, beyond the long range of fires, he
tossed his axe on his shoulder.

"Skoal to you, Elin," he exclaimed. "If you haven't
chosen right for yourself, you have for me." He tapped his
sword-hilt. "This maid keeps me busy. A second might
cause disorders in the household. One man, one wife — a
good rule."

Her eyes met his frankly, with a look of mingled shame
and defiance.

"I am house-bred," she confessed. "If I must yield me to
a man — "

She lifted her arms in a gesture of resignation, and turned
to Geir.

"I cry your kindness, Geir Bjarni's son," she said proudly.
"In Ireland I was a Princess."

Geir caught her hands with a fine, rough courtesy.

"Here you shall be my wife," he answered. "Ho, thralls,
conduct your mistress to the bower."

And, expansive in victory, he hailed Aslak, who was strid
ing towards the Men's Door:

"Stop a few days, Baresark. There will be betrothal ale to
drink."

"Not for me," replied Aslak. "I suspect no good would
come of keeping our two maids under the same roof — more
especially, as they belong to different men. And mine spits
angrily when she thinks a rude hand caressed her."

He walked out, chuckling, into the twilight. As he stood
by the porch, considering which way he should go, a small
boy rushed up to him.

"Ho, carl," screamed the child. "What is this the thralls
tell me: that my father has brought in a new wife ?"

CHORD'S WOOINQ 189

Aslak scrutinized the red, foxy face and little eyes with
amused interest.

"If your father is Geir — "

"Who else, stupid ?" the boy thrust in arrogantly.

"Ah, youngling, what good manners you have ! "Well, as
I was about to say, if your father is Geir, he has brought in a
new — Wife5 did you say ? Well, perhaps, perhaps ! Who
can read the future ? Not I !"

The boy bellowed aloud.

"An ill-deed, an ill-deed ! The house runs well enough.
And this woman, they say, will raise up a pack of brats to
annoy me. Loki's curse on my father ! But I'll hold them
down. And if she seeks to hinder me — "

His lips contorted in an evil grin, and he skipped up the
porch into the skalli.

"Ah, Grey Maiden," Aslak murmured to himself, "perhaps
I was over loyal to you. In most soft beds there is a husk."

He squared his shoulders, surveying the dim outline of far-
off jokulls, a white tracery of snow across the serrated ridge
of peaks.

"A hard land ! Now, to see what can be made out of it.
Quarrels aplenty, that I see already ! But what else ? Ah,
yes, what else ?"

ii

THE Sea Woman, Geir's folk called Elin, but soon they spoke
of her as the Wise. She was beloved by all the household,
except the boy Bjarni; and Geir, himself, she could twine
around the shank of her spindle. There was none like her
in those parts for gentleness or courtesy or wisdom. Be it
housework or husbandry or needlecraft or nursing the sick,
she had a deft hand and an agile wit. Simples and herbs she
knew like an old wife. Also, much of tasty cooking. But
her wisdom shone brightest in unravelling the tangled threads
of life. No man or woman asked her advice in vain, and it
was commonly said that Geir owed considerable profit to her
counsels.

190

It was she who withheld him from joining Herjolf in an
East venture the summer of the Great Harvest; and Herjolf,
who was prejudiced against her because of young Bj ami's
hatred — and for another reason, which shall be told —
hated her as bitterly as Bjarni thereafter, for there was so
much food and livestock in Iceland the next winter that the
oversea traders could sell only lumber and weapons, and to
make a bad matter worse, the Fall gales took heavy toll of
shipping.

It irked Herjolf that while he suffered loss Geir had only
profit to count. He said she was a witch and practiced sor
cery; but in Geir's presence he was careful to guard his
tongue. Geir would suffer no harm to be spoken of her; the
Wealthy held a tight rein on Bjarni, too, and restrained his
son's malice in the skalli — with the consequence that Bjarni
rode frequently to Herjolf's stead to unburden his woes, and
in the course of years became as intimate a friend of the
Hairy as ever Geir had been.

So if Elin entered Geir's bower reluctantly, she was not
slow in growing reconciled to her lot. He was a good hus
band to her, as she was a good wife to him. And when a
son was born to her in the Fall after their mating there was
no shadow of a barrier between the two. This boy was
named Thord, and he was of his mother's breed. He had
her blue-grey, steady eyes and white coloring, with very black
hair; and, likewise her sweetness of temper. The stead folk
loved him, and it was often remarked how different he was
from his half-brother, who was sour, close-fisted, and over
bearing.

Meanwhile, at Borgarhaven, Astrid bloomed to girlhood.
She was a golden maid, her eyes a violet-blue, handsome in
feature and her yellow locks so long that folk jested of them,
saying it was easily to be credited that Herjolf the Hairy was
her father. She was not more than a year or so older than
Thord, so it came about that they frequently played together.
Bjarni would eye them angrily when they did, and come and
stand over them.

THORD'S WOOINQ 191

"Take heed, baseborn," he would growl at his brother.
"She is intended for me."

"I shall wed where I choose," Astrid would answer, with a
toss of her head. And Thord would say in a cool, off-hand
fashion:

"He who wants must take."

Bjarni itched to knife him, but once, when Thord was
eight, Bjarni had beaten him insensible, and for that Geir had
all but slain his elder son.

"If brothers fight, skallis burn," rasped Geir. "Moreover,
an honorable youth does not assail children. Another time,
carl, I will hew your head off, instead of skinning you with
a whip."

Thus twelve years passed. Red Bjarni was a stalwart
youth, of his father's height. Thord was well-grown, but it
was apparent, now, that he would never equal his brother
in stature. Yet he was a lad of high spirit, lithe and limber-
muscled, and quick-witted, as became his mother's son. Elin
found much joy in him. Her life was easy and happy.
Secure in Geir's love and the loyalty of her serving-folk, and
possessing the friendship of her neighbors, she cared little for
the cold welcome she received when she accompanied Geir
on his visits to Borgarhaven, where Aud was as hostile to her
as Herjolf. Of Bjarni she took more account, always
counselling Thord that he should not needlessly offend his
brother, but she reckoned it useless to borrow trouble for a
danger unavoidable, and looked to time either to heal the
breach or provide a settlement of her stepson's animosity.
Truth to tell, wise as she was, Elin could not comprehend
the measure of Bjarni's hatred.

If she had ever regretted her choice — if choice it was —
between Geir and Aslak, that regret was years since buried.
The Orkneyman had journeyed West. They heard of him
at intervals, usually in connection with fighting or brawling,
once as having made the Greenland voyage. He was re
tained by several chiefs who had feuds against them for the
sake of his weapon skill, and he became famous in the Rang-

river Vales and the West Firths country for his deeds as a
double-handed slayer. For he fought as no man ever had
been known to fight, with axe in one hand and sword in the
other. Few cared to encounter him after his reputation was
established. All the more so, when he was outlawed for hew
ing down Kol Mord's son of Grimsness in a dispute over wages
due him. The sentence was that he must pass three years
overseas, and he took ship with Oddi the Stout, a Sogn man
out of Norway, in the White River late in the summer. And
so fared eastward, and was no more seen for the period of his
outlawry.

in

GEIR was riding home from the Berufirth dales, where he
had been collecting rents, when one of his tenants hailed him
as he was crossing Stafafell.

"Ho, Geir," bawled the tenant. "Aslak the Baresark has
stolen my calf."

"Your wits have left you, carl," returned Geir. "Aslak
is in Norway — "

"No, no, he landed a week past. He was outlawed for a
slaying in The Bay. And he says he will live always an out
law, now, seeing that he has had sentence passed on him in
three — "

"Peace, peace," ordered Geir, reining in. "You seem to
know something, after all. But are you certain it was Aslak
stole your calf ?"

"Certain ?" quoth the tenant indignantly. "Did I not
see him cut its throat with that maal-sword of his ? And
carry it off under my eyes ? He has just gone off toward
Vatna Jokull. You could catch him if you rode fast."

"I will," said Geir, and urged his horse forward along the
track.

On the edge of the fell, where it dipped up to the foot
hills of the Jokull, he sighted the figure of a man, covering
the ground with great leaps and bounds, and slung over the
runner's shoulder was what looked like a dead calf. Geir

CHORD'S WOOING 193

shouted several times, and galloped faster, so that presently
the runner heard him, looked back, dropped the carcass on
the grass and brandished axe and sword in defiance.

"That is Aslak," Geir told himself.

And Aslak it was, wilder and raggeder than when he was
washed ashore from the Sudreyar ship; but still clutching the
axe of blue steel and the sword Grey Maiden.

"Well met, Geir," he said, a twinkle in his eye. "I hear
you made a good match of it. But you ride in haste. Don't
let me interrupt you."

"It is I who must interrupt you," Geir replied testily.
"Why did you not introduce yourself at my stead, if you
were hungry ? Elin would have fed you for old times'
sake. There was no need for you to steal from yon poor
carl."

Aslak leaned on his axe, and considered this point.

"Ah, but I have no fond memories of your skalli," he an
swered. "And for the calf, why, I asked the fellow civilly
for a bite and a sup, and he asked the weight of my silver.
I told him I had none, and he bade me apply to you for
charity. So I killed his calf. If he had spoken me fair, I
would have killed yours rather than his. When I must rob,
I prefer to rob the wealthy."

"Is that what you have returned to Iceland for ?" de
manded Geir, flushing.

"More or less," admitted the Orkneyman. "I am tired
of being outlawed. It will be easier to live always outside
the law. Then I shall at least know where I am."

"Thieves' talk," fumed Geir. "If that is your intention,
take yourself elsewhere. You will receive scant mercy here."

"It may be, it may be," owned Aslak; "but I shall try
this country, at any rate. The flocks look fat and the folk
are prosperous."

At this Geir lost his temper completely, and drove his
horse full-tilt at the Orkneyman. Aslak tried to dodge, saw
that he could not and struck a lightning blow with Grey
Maiden at the horse's crupper.

194

"Let the nag pay the debt," he cried.

The keen edge bit deep, and the horse pitched forward so
suddenly that Geir was thrown headlong from the saddle,
sprawling some distance away in a huddle of limbs. Aslak
looked grave.

"This is in no wise as I intended," murmured the Orkney-
man.

He sheathed Grey Maiden and laid his axe beside the calf,
then went and knelt by Geir. The Wealthy's head — helm-
less for a peaceful journey — had crashed against a boulder;
it was smashed to a red pulp. Aslak tapped his sword-hilt
regretfully.

"Ah, Grey Maiden, Grey Maiden, did I not say twelve years
gone that it was bad luck for someone to sheath you thirsty ?
You have a long memory, lass. Too long !"

He stood up and reflected aloud:

"Trouble must flow from this deed, I think. But it can
not be said that Aslak slays secretly. No, no ! All shall be
properly accounted for." He cast a regretful eye upon the
calf. "Well, well, there should be more cattle where you
came from."

He slung Geir's body over his shoulder, making as little
difficulty of the man's weight as he had of the calf's, picked
up his axe, and strode back along the track.

Later in the day, a frightened farmer entered the yard at
Geir's stead leading a nervous pony, to the back of which was
strapped a stiffening corpse.

"Aslak did it," he babbled to the outpouring of tenants,
serving-folk and thralls. "Aslak the Baresark. He stole a
calf from Kettle Freedman's son — over there by Black Water

— and Kettle met Geir — and Geir rode after Aslak — and
Aslak would not give up the calf. So they fought. He says

— Aslak says — that he tried to kill Geir's horse, so as to
spare him; but when the horse fell, Geir was hurled against
a rock. There is not a brain in his head !"

"It looks like an axe-wound to me," howled a man.
"Yes, yes, an axe," echoed the crowd.

THORD'S WOOING 195

Elin appeared on the skalli porch.

"An axe ?" she exclaimed. "Who is hurt ? What — "

The ranks split in front of her, and she saw the poor shell
of Geir, distorted across the skittish pony's back.

"Mary aid me !" she sighed. "I thought life was over-
fair. But carry him in, carls, carry him into his hall. His
hall ! What will his property serve him, now, who died in
heathen wrath ?"

IV

THE corners of the skalli were in darkness. Overhead the
shadows pranced and swayed among the roof-beams in re
sponse to the leaping flames of the hearth-fires. The ropes
that bound down the roof creaked and groaned as the east-
wind howled under the gables and pushed and clawed at the
building. Elin clutched Thord tighter to her, and stared
across the dais-table at the lowering faces of her enemies.

"But I — " confused, she made as if to brush a veil from
before her eyes — "I was his wife. Thord was his son."

Young Bjarni's fox-eyes glittered wickedly.

"His wife ! You witch, you tricked yourself into my
father's graces, but he never wived you. His bond-woman,
yes, that you were — and the brat beside you baseborn."

"The truth," confirmed Herjolf. "There was no thought
of marriage. By Rann, who washed you hither, where is
your settlement ? Who handfasted your betrothal ?"

Aud, sitting between the two, laughed venomously.

"Well said, husband ! The creature thinks only to purloin
our nephew's heritage for her baseborn son."

Now, Elin drew herself up, seething with bitter anger; but
the boy Thord spoke for her, his voice uncanny in its even
coldness.

"All this is thievery, you three do," he charged. "And so
shall it be termed in Iceland, for it is well known how you
have hated my mother and me."

Bjarni clutched at his sword, and started to rise; but Aud
held him back.

i96

"No, no," she said. "Let them not tempt you to do that
which they wish. Slay one or both, and you risk outlawry.
Send them out to starve, and who can question your right ?
For where shall they find folk to bear witness for them ? Or
funds to sue at the All thing ?"

"I'll not rest easy while that bower-rat lives," snarled
Bjarni. "Here is as good a chance as any to make an end of
him."

Elin's heart near stopped beating. She marked the look
of calculation in Herjolf 's eye, the wavering in Aud's expres
sion. But Thord glared fearlessly at all three.

"A coward's threat," he exclaimed scornfully. "Give me
sword or axe, and 111 fight you, here on the skalli floor.
What ? Shall I call the house-folk to hear me ?"

He raised his voice, and Herjolf made up his mind, reach
ing over Aud's shoulders to clamp a hand upon Bjarni's sword-
arm.

"He is a fool who over-reaches his advantage," growled
the Hairy one. "We need no witnesses tonight. And your
aunt gives good advice. They have no case. They must take
what we give them, and if that is life, alone, how can they
complain ? Do not all men know Geir came to his death by
the stroke of Aslak's axe ? And is it not common gossip
that Aslak and Elin were washed ashore together from the
same ship ?"

Aud tittered shrilly.

"Past doubt, husband, past doubt ! She concerted with
the Baresark. He was to slay Geir, she would smooth mat
ters for him, and then they would set up housekeeping to
gether in a nest Geir had feathered for them. It is likely
they planned next to slay Bjarni, and so assure themselves of
all Geir's property."

"Then who shall say we have not the right to slay them ?"
protested Bjarni.

"Ah, some folk are prejudiced," answered Herjolf.

"She has a way with her, this grey-eyed cat," endorsed
Aud. "Is she not a Christian ? A witch ?"

THORD'S WOOING 197

"Suppose she puts a spell upon us ?" suggested Bjarni.

Herjolf glanced uneasily at her white face, proudly con
temptuous.

"That is an idea worth debating," he admitted. "I suspect
she has spelled us before this — and she must have woven a
strong spell over Geir to hold him so long in thrall."

Elin broke her silence.

"Yes," she cried, "I will cast a spell upon you, knaves.
And my spell is this: Little good shall you have of that
which you steal. All that you set your hands to shall go
wrong. The folk shall turn from you, and your names will
be a mockery on every tongue. Bjarni, there, shall come to a
sorry death. Yes, and I give him a new name. From now
on he shall be called the Grasping. And you, Herjolf, shall
be no longer called the Hairy, but the False. And Aud shall
be called the Treacherous."

"Stop her, stop her," clamored Aud, clasping hands upon
her ears.

Herjolf winced. Bjarni started to draw his sword again.

"I'll hew off her head," he mumbled. "Thor knows what
curse she may yet devise !"

Thord seized a stool from the floor and would have gone
in front of his mother, but she put him away and lifted the
gold chain which hung around her neck. From the chain
depended a tiny cross, with strange, mystic characters graven
on it, and this she held on a level with her enemies' eyes.

"By the power of this I stay you," she commanded sternly.
"Bide, Bjarni ! Touch not your sword, lest your hand wither
at the wrist. Herjolf, Aud, over both of you falls my
spell."

"Oh, touch her not," moaned Aud.

"Let be, Bjarni, let be," babbled Herjolf. "It is ill threat
ening steel to a witch."

Bj ami's fingers unloosed his sword-hilt, and he wiped a
clammy dew of sweat from his forehead. Aud tremblingly
signed the Hammer in front of them.

"Go, witch," she quavered. "You may not harm us."

"A horse to Odin," muttered Herjolf. "I vow a horse !

No skinny beast, but a plump stallion."

Thord laughed aloud.

"Cowards, the three of you," he derided. "Come, mother,
let us go."

"And take nothing with you," shrilled Aud. "Witch or
no, there is law in the land, and you may not rob us."

"Not a kirtle," echoed Bjarni. "Not so much as a knife
from the weapon-chests."

"No, no, go in peace," stammered Herjolf. "Be content
with your lives. If we ever spoke of this night's work — "

"Who would believe you ?" demanded Elin. "But I am
an outlander and a lone woman, and Thord is but a lad.
You are rich and powerful. Well you know none in the dis
trict will venture your wrath to aid me in a suit at law. But
I am content. There is a Power above yours, and to that
Power I yield my case. Come, Thord !"

"Do we take nothing, then, mother ?" he asked. "Hark
to the wind. There is a storm. At least, a cloak to shield
you from the wet !"

"A cloak from this house would chill me," she answered
curtly. "I will not be beholden to heathen enemies, who
cheat and steal."

She turned away, and released from the grip of her slate-
blue eyes, Bjarni screamed after her:

" 'Tis you are heathen, sea-witch ! Look to it, when I am
unbound to your spell."

But Elin ignored him. Holding firmly to Thord's arm,
she walked down the skalli and out by the Men's Door into
the driving scud of the rain. Thord shivered as the wind
smote them on the porch-step.

"Where do we go, mother ?" he murmured. "It will be
cold tonight."

She hesitated, pondering.

"There is a shepherd's hut vacant over toward Stafafell,"
she decided. "That will serve for the night. Afterward —
He who watches all will be our guide."

THORD'S WOOINQ 199

THERE was much talk all through the South country of
Bjarni's treatment of Elin and Thord.

"Wedded or unwedded, she was a faithful wife to Geir,"
said the women.

"Settlement or no settlement, Geir had great profit out of
her counsel," said the men.

It was generally believed that Aslak had slain Geir inten
tionally, but all laughed at the story Bjarni and Herjolf put
about that Aslak and Elin had concerted it between them.
Yet no one was willing to risk the enmity of the two richest
men in the Hornfirth dales by coming out openly and spon
soring Elin's cause. The South country folk helped her pri
vately, and gave her enemies the names she had spelled them
with; but that was as far as any would go. And indeed,
Elin asked no man's help. With the gold links of her chain
and her bracelets, she purchased Rolf's Farm, a tiny patch of
ground and a poor hut of lava rocks and ship-timbers, and
stocked it with a few swine and sheep. Here she dwelt, and
only Thord for company. They would have gone hungry
often that winter but for the folk who came to her with
heart-aches and body-ills and problems of conduct. These
paid gladly for a slice of her wisdom, and their fees kept
Rolf's Farm in food and fuel — these and one other.

The second night after Elin and Thord moved into the
hut a knock sounded on the door.

"Who is that ?" challenged Thord.

"Is Elin within ?" countered a man's voice.

"I am," spoke up Elin.

"Good," said the voice. "Let me in, Elin. Do you re
member Aslak, the Orkneyman ?"

"To my sorrow, I do," she retorted, but she unfastened
the door.

Aslak blinked in the firelight as he bent his head to clear
the lintel.

"You are cosy and warm," he exclaimed admiringly.

200 QRCY

"This is better fare than I have. But it is not my purpose
to envy you." He perceived Thord glowering at him from
the hearth, and grinned at the boy, then instantly sobered.
"Do you believe these tales that I slew Geir ?" he asked
abruptly.

Elin regarded him dispassionately, until he became restless
and shuffled his feet on the earthen floor.

"I do not," she answered as abruptly as he had spoken; "but
there is no question that you were the means of his bane."

He nodded slowly.

"That I can not deny. But hear me, you and Thord, yonder.
I had a kindness in my heart for Geir because he used you
well. I would not have slain him, save to defend myself. I
thought, rather, to kill his horse, and then run from him.
But it was not to be. I care nothing for myself, and mighty
little for Geir; but I will do anything I may for you."

He paused.

"There is nothing," she replied a trifle less frostily.

"But these two carls who have robbed you and the boy
of your portions ?" he persisted. "They have told foul
stories about me, as well as you. How if I slew them for
you, eh ? They are still at Geir's stead, the folk say, royster-
ing over their triumph. I could — "

"If you slay them, Aslak," she interrupted, "folk will be
lieve the stories they set afoot. Then, in truth, may it be
said that you and I wrought to be rid of Geir and all who
stood between us and his property."

Thord jumped up from his stool on the hearth.

"What of that ?" he exclaimed. "The property would be
ours. We could afford a few tales. And it would be a
proper vengeance."

Elin fixed him with her slate-blue eyes that held mysterious
depths of knowledge.

"Is it for one who is no kin to us to avenge our wrong ?"
she asked softly. "When you come to man's estate, my son,
will you be proud to have it said as you ride by: 'There
goes Thord Geir's son, who is wealthy because Aslak the Bare-

THORD'S WOOINQ 201

sark slew his half-brother, Bjarni, and Bjarni's uncle, Herjolf,
and hoped thereby to obtain the hand of Thord's mother, hav
ing first slain Geir.' Will that make you feel like an honor
able man ?"

"No," the boy answered sullenly. "I will take my own
vengeance."

"That is my thought," she agreed. "You see how matters
stand, Aslak ?" she turned to the Baresark. "Much harm,
unwitting, you have done us. If you slay Bjarni and Her
jolf you will put us in very evil case. It might be that Aud
would bring suit against us to secure sentence of outlawry.
She might claim all Bjarni's inheritance by virtue that her
sister was his mother or because there was a betrothal agree
ment between the families to unite him with Astrid, her
daughter. Even if neither of these things happened, we
should cease to be victims of malice and would become
wrongdoers, man-slayers in intent, if not in deed."

Aslak bowed his head with unaccustomed humility.

"You have schooled me as I deserved, Elin," he said.
"What you say is not to be denied. Is there aught else I can
do for you ? I wot well," he added hastily, "the company
of an outlaw would be as dangerous for you as the deed I
suggested."

Elin thought a moment.

"There is naught you can do, at this time," she answered
finally.

"If there ever is, summon me," he begged. "I shall stay
in these parts."

He glanced at Thord, who eyed him now admiringly.

"That is a stout youngling. He has the making of a
warrior. Send him to me when he is ready for weapon-
training."

He shouldered his axe, and strode out of the hut, and Elin
and Thord saw him no more; but occasionally when they
rose in the morning, they would find a dead sheep or swine or
a quarter of beef or a basket of fish, tucked up safe on the
eaves. And they knew whence it came.

202

VI

Now, six years pass. Most of this time Bjarni was overseas,
viking-faring or at the court of the Norse king. He left
Iceland by advice of Herjolf, who acted in some sort as his
fosterer.

"A man who blinks the truth is a fool, and merits the
trouble which comes to him," quoth Herjolf. "There is no
gainsaying that we two have won little popularity, but my
experience is that men have short memories, and all folk,
poor and wealthy, are anxious to be at peace with a power
ful chief. Therefore I counsel you to fare eastward, and
acquire a warrior's reputation. It is only fitting that a young
man of your position should travel, so that you may know
something of different countries. Geir talked of sending
you before he was slain. It would be fulfilling his wish
for you to go, and we will make announcement that it is your
purpose to honor him in the journey.'*

"I do not like to go while that witch is free to work spells
against me," objected Bjarni.

"Hut, boy, I shall be here," replied Herjolf. "I shall not
be asleep."

"And there is Astrid," continued Bjarni.

But Herjolf swept aside this excuse, too.

"By Freya, you can not wed her at her age," he boomed jo
vially. "It will be years yet before we hold the betrothal
feast, but when you return next it would be fitting to set
out the heirship ale. By then the folk will have become ac
customed to Elin's plight, and many will attend who might
now answer that they must go upon a journey."

Herjolf had his way, and in the following spring Bjarni
sailed east. Harald Greyfell was King in Norway, and for
his family's sake and because he was big-bodied and wealthy
and a stout fighter for his years, he was made welcome at
Court; and in the summer King Harald lent him two long-
ships and a Jarl of experience to teach him, and Bjarni sailed
on a viking-raid east into the Baltic. For three years he

THOKD'S WOOING 203

lived after this fashion, spending his winters at the King's
Court, and viking-faring in the summer. He obtained
reputation by his efforts, and was regarded as a chief of
promise, although the King was heard once to say: "He
was well-named the Grasping, this Icelander. Much he may
do, but all he will take what he can."

The fourth spring after his departure from the Hornfirth
dales Bjarni obtained leave from King Harald to fare west
ward, and he made a swift passage and beached his dragon
on his own stead. Herjolf rode over from Borgarhaven,
with Aud and Astrid and their two sons, Half the Little and
Starkad, to welcome him. Many other men of property
came, too, for as Herjolf had predicted, the years had dulled
the first burst of indignation over his selfishness toward Elin
and Thord. And it was noted by all who saw him that
Bjarni had learned the manners of a traveller and warrior of
experience. The old men, who had wandered far, were glad
to talk to him of the countries they knew which he had
visited.

The maid Astrid was grown slim and tall. Her eyes were
very serious, and her speech was slow, and she was shy in
men's company — especially, in Bjarni's company. He spoke
of this to Herjolf, but Herjolf laughed at him.

"What will you have of a maid ?" gibed his uncle. "She
thinks of you — and because she thinks, she fears. But she
will grow accustomed to the thought in time, and from that
the rest is a short step and a sure."

So Bjarni summoned his friends and neighbors to the skalli
at Geir's stead to drink the heirship ale, and a great host of
them attended, albeit not a few were shamefaced and jeered
at him behind his back. Then, having assured himself that
his property was in order, under Herjolf's supervision, Bjarni
took ship again for Norway and was gone for the space of
two more winters. As it chanced, during this visit, he saw
none of the three people whose lives were inextricably tangled
with his own; Elin, because she was at pains not to cross his
path; Thord, because Elin had sent her son on a Greenland

204

voyage to keep him from meeting Bjarni; and Aslak, be
cause the Baresark never came near the dwelling-places of
men, except when he needed food or drink, and that would
be at night or by stealth.

The lives of these three were very different from his. Pov
erty they knew, day by day; cold in winter, and heat in sum
mer. Aslak, to be sure, seldom raised his hand to work,
unless it was to help some farmer who had fed him in the
harvest season; but Elin and Thord had never an end to their
labor. Mother and son planted and reaped scanty crops,
toiled to rear their live-stock, and sought employment eagerly
from all their neighbors. They knew no luxuries; their
clothing was of the simplest; they were glad for sufficient
food to stay their hunger; Elin must send Thord on the
Greenland voyage for that she could not equip him with a
sword to stand his ground, boy though he was, if he en
countered Bjarni in the road. But all three had this com
fort: that they lived their lives as pleased them best. Aslak
was an outlaw, and took what he wished from those he dis
liked. Elin and Thord upheld their pride, and strove for
a certain purpose.

Of the three Elin was happiest, for she might watch her
son waxing splendidly toward manhood, a rangy, lean-hipped,
deep-chested youth, his muscles supple, his limbs tireless,
sharpened and hardened like a steel blade in the fire of
adversity. She was never downcast, but had always a song
or a bright saying on her lips; and she bred up this spirit in
Thord — Smiling Thord, the folk called him. And every
farmer who needed extra labor, every fisherman who could
use one more hand, gladly accepted his services. When he
had done his mother's stint he roamed the length and breadth
of the South country, from Berufirth to Floi, many days'
journey, seeking to earn a penny or a slab of meat or a bag
of grain or a jug of ale; and if eventide often found him
near Borgarhaven, who would question him — supposing
the steadfolk saw him not ?

"He grows old young," said Elin, seeing the light in his

CHORD'S WOOINQ 205

eyes after these excursions, and it is not to be wondered at
that there was sorrow blended with the joy in her heart.

VII

ON A certain day in spring Elin had occasion to go down to
the strand to administer to a sick child in one of the fisher
men's huts, and while she was there a woman cried at the
door that a longship was pulling up the firth. And a little
after came by a man, who shouted:

"Here is Bjarni Geir's son, and with him a notable com
pany of Easterlings. Much booty has the Grasping."

But Elin gave no thought to this because she was wrestling
with death for the child's life, and little it meant to her that
there was a great scurrying of messengers to Geir's stead for
horses and to Borgarhaven to acquaint Herjolf with Bjarni's
return. She wrought on by the bedside until the child's
fever was abated, and then took her way home, very weary
and forgetful of what had passed. Under her arm she car
ried a mackerel the fisherman had given her, and she was
hoping that Thord would be at the farm for supper to enjoy
the treat.

Where the strand way crossed the Geir's stead road she
heard a brisk trampling of hoofs and the voices of many
men talking. The long column turned a clump of rocks
while she stood, hesitating, and she found herself face to face
with Bjarni. But a very different Bjarni from the raw youth
who had cringed under her spell. He was grown larger than
his father had been, three and a quarter ells tall and thick
in proportion. He wore the red cloak of one of the Norse
King's Guard, on his head was a gilded helm, and a fine shirt
of linked mail, silvered, twinkled as the cloak fluttered in
the wind. His face was ruddy and weathered, and his hair
and beard flashed the same color as his cloak. And his eyes
were the cold blue of the northern waters, hard and cruel,
even when he laughed.

He saw her, standing by the track, in her old, worn kirtle

206

and ragged cloak, the fish clutched under her arm in its
wrapping of seaweed, and for a breath his jaw dropped.
Then his lips met in a tight line, and hatred blazed up in his
eyes, making their cruelty seem more alive.

"Ho, witch, you still live!" he exclaimed.

"I shall live to bury you for the sake of the father you
dishonored," she retorted.

His hand stole to his sword-hilt.

"A threat ?" he challenged.

"A promise," she answered steadily.

The column perforce had halted, and Herjolf, by his
nephew's side, whispered that he should ride on, aware of the
angry looks of the Hornfirth folk, who had accepted Bj ami's
invitation to feast his return.

"What ?" men were saying. "Does Bjarni come home to
flout Wise Elin ?" "This is an ill-deed, to assail his father's
widow." "She was no — " "Ah, what of that ? Elin the
"Wise is above the Grasping."

But Bjarni shook his head at Herjolf, and scowled over
his shoulder at the muttering of his neighbors. He bent from
the saddle to bring his eyes nearer to Elin, and all the time
his fingers played with his sword-hilt.

"Of what account is threat or promise from you, Elin ?"
he sneered. "You are old and thin, where you were young
and sleek. I see wrinkles in your cheeks, and is it my imagi
nation or did you use to have hands so cracked and soiled ?"

She lifted her hands, and examined them.

"Yes," she said calmly. "I am an old woman before my
time. I was a Princess when your father wed me. He took
me against my will, but he atoned for that. As men go, he
was kind. It was you, Bjarni the Grasping, who put me to
toil and hunger — as all the folk know."

She raised her voice.

"Ho, Hornfirth folk, behold Bjarni the Grasping, who has
been over-seas to prove his mettle, and would show it to
you by hewing down a woman — and that one his father's
widow !"

THORD'S WOOINQ 207

The muttering was louder at the tail of the column, and
Herjolf snatched at Bjarni's bridle.

"On, boy, on," he snarled. "There is naught to be gained
here."

Bjarni's beard bristled in the excess of his passion.

"Not here, perhaps," he admitted. "But that misbegotten
brat of hers shall pay for the witch's insolence. There is
not room in Iceland for two of my father's sons."

"That is the truth," said Elin, and her eyes sought his.

He stared at her, but quickly averted his gaze.

"She seeks to spell me," he complained. "By the Hammer,
I feel her magic in my veins."

He made the Sign in protection, and Herjolf and those
near him reined hastily aside. Elin laughed, a terrible laugh,
for she was trying to mask the fear which oppressed her,
not fear for herself but for Thord — young, carefree, weap
onless Smiling Thord. She wondered if Thord was paying
one of his surreptitious visits to the copse behind the stead-
yard at Borgarhaven that afternoon.

She drew the little gold cross from her bosom and raised
it in front of Bjarni as she had done once before.

"This is the only magic I know," she said. "And it is
the magic of love, not hate. Yes, I spell you by the love
the folk bear me, Bjarni, and by the love they bear my son.
Touch us, if you dare !"

She walked on across the track, under his horse's nose, and
all that could be heard was the stamping of hoofs and the
clink of mail as men restlessly shifted position. Bjarni winged
a curse after her stooped shoulders. But Herjolf turned in
his saddle, and shouted jovially:

"Well, we have won a passage, carls ! On to the ale-
horns !"

And he murmured angrily to Bjarni:

"Smile, fool, smile ! Will you let them think she curbed
you ? Make a jest ! Be merry ! Pretend you were but
baiting her ! Would you lose all you have gained in six
years ?"

So Bjarni roused himself from the sour rage that con
vulsed him, and strove to belittle the sorry scene.

"So much for a witch ! When they talk of spells give
them little heed. It is what they do in secret that nips a
man's marrow, eh ?"

But one of the small land-holders of the district spoke out
boldly in answer.

"She is a good woman, Elin. The folk call her the Wise.
She helps all who ask her. You will not establish yourself,
Bjarni, by abusing her or Thord — who minds his own af
fairs, and works harder than any youth in the Quarter."

Bjarni scowled at this man, his patience at the bursting
point.

"I am not come hither from the King's court to be lessoned
by you, carl. Give us peace of your chatter ! This Elin
may be wise, but she cozened my father, and would have
cozened Herjolf and me, had we allowed her. As to Thord,
let him look to himself. I'll have no one befouling my
rights. It would be better for all concerned if Elin and
Thord were sent out of Iceland."

"No doubt, no doubt," Herjolf agreed hastily. "But here
is no reason for quarrel, friends. It is a family matter."

But the man who had rebuked Bjarni and several more
withdrew from the column, and of those who rode on to
Geir's stead many held to the same opinion, but for sake
of policy or interest, feared to give Bjarni open offence. Men
said Bjarni had made an ill beginning in Iceland, and all
looked to see what would happen when he and Thord met.

VIII

FEAR stabbed at Elin's heart as she climbed the path to Rolf's
Farm, comparing in her mind the giant figure of Bjarni,
splendid in his war-gear, surrounded by friends and house-
carls, with Thord's youthful stature, naked and unprotected.
Thord was no weakling, but he lacked seven years of Bjarni's
age and better than a span of his half-brother's height. And

CHORD'S WOOINQ 209

Bjarni, she knew, was trained to weapon-work, a redoubtable
warrior, who had held his own with Kings and Jarls and
famous champions. Thord was more accustomed to tugging
at an oar or guiding a plough across the furrows; what little
practice he had with sword and spear was due to the kindness
of old farmers, who had been viking-farers in past days and
could not resist an opportunity to school a likely lad.

She shivered, remembering the cruel look in Bj ami's close-
set eyes. Whatever Herjolf counselled, whatever the Horn-
firth folk might say, she was convinced Bjarni intended to slay
Thord the first time their ways crossed. From boyhood red
brother had hated dark brother. That hatred had been spon
taneous, inevitable. And now it must be emphasized by the
Grasping's dread lest Thord be able to assert a legitimate
claim to their father's property. Ah, and what if Bjarni
learned of those visits to Borgarhaven? What if Astrid re
belled against his wooing ?

Elin stayed her feet, aghast at the thought. Why, of
course, Astrid must rebel ! She recalled her own plight,
forced to wed, unwilling. How much worse the fate of
Astrid, flung into Bjarni's arms, loving another. That was
something she, Elin, had been spared. To wed, unloving,
was bad enough. But to wed, loving another — ah, that
was unspeakable ! And that other, Thord, her Thord, Smil
ing Thord ! Thord, who had been denied so much, who had
never complained. Thord, who stood this day in the shadow
of death by his red brother's hand.

She walked on, thinking deeply. The time had come to
act, she decided. It was useless to count the risks — rather
she and Thord should perish than suffer love to be filched
from them as well as land and money. But what should she
do ? Always, she recognized, she had looked to find a
way to recover her son's inheritance. But how ? What
tools, what weapons, might they obtain, under the handicap
of their poverty ?

It was dusk when she reached her hut, with her questions
unanswered. She was entering the low doorway, when she

a io QRCY

noticed an object wedged in the roof-thatch, and putting up
her hand, drew down a swine's ham. She recognized it as
one of Aslak's gifts, and it reminded her of the Baresark's
offer of aid. The one fightingman she could call upon !
But what could an outlaw do to help her in this situation ?
Slay Bjarni ? She revolted at the idea of assassination. It
would be one thing for Thord to slay his evil brother, but
an unmanly act to allow Aslak to do the deed for him. Nor
would it benefit Thord, she surmised.

Then a plan occurred to her, and she crouched upon the
doorstep, hugging her knees, eyes fixed on the shadowy
loom of the jokulls, thinking, thinking, thinking. When
dragging footsteps sounded on the path, her plan was fully
formed.

"You walk as if you carried a heavy load, my son," she
called into the darkness.

"A load of sorrow, mother," Thord answered dolefully.
"Bjarni is home."

"I have seen him," she replied. "Did you — "

"No." He emerged from the night, and sat on the ground
at her feet. "I — I was at Borgarhaven — in the morning."

"So I guessed," she said.

" Astrid — she — we are of one mind, mother — of one
heart. She — while we talked together one came running
from the stead, crying for her — that Herjolf and Aud rode
for Geir's stead — that Bjarni was returned."

Elin waited silently for him to continue, as he did pres
ently:

"So she went. That was a doegr's l time since. I fol
lowed, and waited — behind the ricks in the yard at Geir's
stead. Do you remember ?"

"Yes," she answered. "It was I had them changed there,
so that they might have better protection from the wet."

He nodded slowly.

"What the stead is I think you made it, mother. Well,
I heard the sound of feasting. Bjarni was boasting of his

1 Twelve hours.

THORD'S WOOINQ in

deeds — how he slew two Englishmen by himself, and cleared
a Daneman's longship, and fared east to Gardariki * — he
had a gold band on his head the King of that country gave
him. So I whistled the seabird's call that is the signal be
tween Astrid and me — and — and after a while — she came.
Her kirtle was blue — and she slipped into my arms almost
before I saw her."

He groaned.

"Oh, mother ! Oh, mother !"

Elin dropped her hand on the black head at her knee.

"Yes, my son ?"

"Herjolf — Bjarni — the betrothal feast is set for the week
before the Thing- far ing. She — she is to ride with Bjarni
when he goes to Almannagjaa."

Now, Elin said naught for another while, listening to
Thord's steady breathing, her fingers caressing the heavy
locks of his hair.

"Would you venture death for her ?" she asked finally.

He looked up, surprised.

"Death ? What is death that I should fear it ? All we
had Bjarni has taken from us. Whatever betides, I will
not sit patient under this. But — but — without wea
pon — "

"There is a way," she said. "It is a hard way, and a dan
gerous. But it is my thought that you are man enough to
follow it, despite your youth. Yet tarry a moment, my
son, and study yourself. Life is long. If you let Astrid
go, another maid may — "

"No, no," he cried.

"She is older than you. Think! You are scarce more than
a boy."

"Men have worn crowns and fought battles before my
age," he returned proudly. "Yes, and begotten sons. It is
not the years, but the will, that makes the man."

Elin bent and kissed his brow.

"Well-spoken, Thord," she said. "You must win yourself

1 Russia

212

another name than the Smiling. That was sufficient for a
boy, but you shall be a warrior, with a reputation becoming
your race, or — or — die with honor."

He sprang up excitedly.

"That is my wish, mother. But what is this way you
spoke of ? I care not how hard it is or how dangerous.
Give me a sword, that is all I ask. Show me how I may
punish Bjarni !"

"You have not forgotten Aslak the Baresark ?" she asked.

She sensed, rather than saw, how his face fell.

"Yes, but he is an outlaw. And one man — "

"He is not an ordinary man. And he has a sword, Grey
Maiden, which has great powers. He told me once that it
is reputed whoever wields it may not be slain by steel. Also,
he is more skilled in weapon-craft than any man in Iceland.
Go to him, and say you come from me. Ask him to lend
you Grey Maiden."

"But he will not," expostulated Thord. "No man would.
It would break his luck."

"I do not think that he will do so willingly," she replied
calmly. "But I will show you how you may win it from
him without doing him any hurt. For I would not hurt
Aslak, since he has been kind to me, and likewise, because
I have need for his testimony. You will require a man to
guard your back on the venture I have in mind, and that is
another reason for sparing him."

Thord regarded her in bewilderment.

"You speak with a confidence I do not feel, albeit I have
no fear, mother," he said.

"Heed me, and you will understand," she replied. "Your
one chance of securing justice against Bjarni and of staying
him from wedding Astrid is to slay him lawfully in single
combat — in holmgang. And you shall do it in this wise."

It was late in the night when she ceased speaking, and
Thord assisted her to rise. He stood before her very humbly.

"Whatever name I may win, mother, it will not be as

THORD'S WOO1NQ 213

honorable as yours," he said. "You are rightly named the
Wise."

She kissed him, her heart too full for speech. For her
thought was this: if I send him to defeat I shall be his bane,
and if I send him to victory I thrust him into Astrid's arms.
In either case I lose him. Woe is my lot !

DC

THORD set out in the morning, a bag of food on his shoulder
and gladness in his heart. He felt that he was at last a man
and by way of becoming a warrior, of whom scalds should
recite rhymes and tales by the hearthfires for years to come.
Elin saw him go with a smiling face and bright words, but
when he passed the lip of the fell she turned back into her
hut and sat by the fire and let down her hair and wept, with
the quiet grief of a woman whose life has turned the corner
into the lonely dales of age. So we leave her.

Thord's path lay over Stafafell. On his left hand tow
ered the gigantic mass of the Vatna Jokull, its rocky wastes
stretching away as far as could be seen. Some said that
Aslak's hiding-place was in one of the ravines which pro
jected like finger-tips from the mountain's immensity, but
Elin had been sure that the Baresark would not den so
close to the haunts of men. She advised Thord to inquire
of the shepherds and wayfarers he encountered whether they
had seen Aslak or had knowledge of his resort; it might
take time, but soon or late either he would find Aslak or
Aslak would hear of his inquiries and seek him out.

So Thord strode sturdily along, greeting all he chanced to
meet, and never failing in his question:

"Have you seen Aslak Flatnose in these dales, carl ?"

And shepherd or farmer or traveller — passing, belike,
from Berarstead, on Lagarfleet, to Hornfirth — would an
swer in much the same words:

"What ? The Baresark ? You are like to have a warm

214 <?R6T

welcome, Thord. No, we have not seen him. As well chase
a shadow in the night !"

That evening Thord slept with a shepherd on Oxenlava,
who admitted he had seen Aslak faring toward Hornfirth
several days past, but had not noticed the Baresark's return.
He recommended Thord to several friends in Fleetdale, and
from these folk Thord receive much the same change during
his second day's search. All knew Aslak, but professed igno
rance of his whereabouts. One expressed the opinion that
the Baresark dwelt in the neighborhood of Snaefell, beyond
the Fleetwater, and with this to go upon, Thord headed in
land the third day.

The country was the most desolate he had ever seen. A
spur of the Vatna Jokull intervened, now, betwixt him and
the Hornfirth dales; and a man might wander the whole
day and never see a human face — although the shepherds
were agreed that the wilderness maintained a sinister popu
lation of trolls and other evil spirits. They were full of tales
of men and maidens who had disappeared, and several claimed
there was reason to suppose Aslak in league with the de
mons. How else was the Baresark immune from the perils
which befell ordinary folk ?

So that night, when Thord bedded beneath an overhanging
rock, he repeated a prayer Elin had taught him and ar
ranged a number of pebbles in the form of a cross by his
side. It was very still, high up there on Snaefell, the jokull
peaks hulking like half-seen, grotesque monsters across the
pale northern sky, and he listened for the scream of demon
voices; but all he heard was the chatter of a branch of
the headwaters of the Heradsfloi, clinking over its
boulderstrewn bed, on the first stage of its descent through
the Jokull dales. Then he slept, and in the morning awoke
unharmed.

This day, again, he saw no one until close to evening,
when he encountered a shepherd, a very old, withered man,
who looked at him with suspicion when he propounded his
usual question.

Aslak. appeared, a wild figure, dressed in sheepskins, hairy as

Herjolf's self

2i 6 QRCY

"And what will you seek of Aslak ?" demanded the shep
herd.

"I have a message for him."

"Who sends it ?"

"I see that you do not know me," Thord replied patiently.
"I am Thord Geir's son, and my mother is Elin, whom the
Hornfirth folk call the Wise. I bear her message."

The shepherd stared hard at him.

"Elin ! She was the maid cast ashore with Aslak.
Humph ! Yes, the maid Geir wedded against her will. You
are brother to Bjarni Geir's son, who is called the Grasping."

"Half-brother," corrected Thord.

The shepherd stroked his long beard, and deliberated fur
ther.

"Humph ! It is to be seen that you are unarmed. Bide
here two days."

"But I am seeking Aslak — "

"Bide here two days."

"You know where the Baresark — "

"Bide here two days."

And not a word more would the old carl say. So Thord
sat himself down in that spot on desolate Snaefell, and waited
the night, the next day and night and a part of the ensuing
day. It was past noon when a voice hailed him from the
mouth of a ravine, and Aslak appeared, a wild figure, dressed
in sheepskins, hairy as Herjolf's self, the sword Grey Maiden
at his belt and the axe of blue steel resting on his shoulder.
He was no longer a young man, but he walked with the quick,
firm tread of one who does not tire easily. He had a chest
as round as a barrel, and if he was not so huge as Bjarni,
yet he was a thought stouter than Thord, massive as the
jokulls amongst which he dwelt. A champion.

"So you are Thord," he cried in a voice that boomed like
the wind in a sail. "I have seen you from afar, youngling;
but never close enough to judge how you have grown."

"I am not so large as some," replied Thord, gathering
his wits for what must follow.

THORD'S WOOINQ 217

"No, you are of your father's build, and that means you
are bitling to me — and to Bjarni, too, eh ?"

"Bjarni is as much bigger than you as you are bigger
than I," said Thord. "He returned to Geir's stead a few
days ago — the day you left the ham for my mother."

"Ho, did he ?" exclaimed Aslak. "Ill tidings ! I wish
I had tarried. I might have put sword or axe to that red
head of his."

"That is for me to do," declared Thord.

"For you, bantling ? And how will you come by it ? For
I guess you to be no warrior, as yet — which is no fault of
your own."

"It was for that reason my mother sent me to you."

"To be taught weapon-craft ?" Aslak nodded sagely. "I
remember I made such an offer to her — six years back, after
Geir and I had that unlucky bicker. Well, well! That is
best forgotten. Will you begin with sword or axe ?"

Thord cleared his throat, resolved to plunge without delay
into the true intent of his mission.

"There is not time for much of that, Aslak," he answered.
"It was the thought of my mother that you would lend me
your sword."

"Grey Maiden ?" Aslak gaped in amazement. "Boy, you
are mad ! No hand but mine touches Grey Maiden, until
Odin sends the Valkyrs for me. Hut ! It is unlucky for
another hand to draw it. See what befell Geir !"

"Nevertheless, I must have it," Thord persisted doggedly.
"I must challenge Bjarni to fight in holmgang, and to win
against him I require Grey Maiden."

"Come, come," remonstrated the Baresark, "I'll fight him
for you."

"That can not be, for the reasons my mother gave you
once before. Also, in this case, I must fight Bjarni, not only
for my rights and my mother's vindication, but to save
Astrid Herjolf's dotter — he seeks to wed her, and the be
trothal feast is set."

"Hutatut !" growled Aslak. "Here is a mad youngling !

2i 8

And cause enough for a lifetime of feuds and bloodlettings.
I am for you, Thord, and for Elin; but not for you or Elin
would I let Grey Maiden pass out of my hands."

"So my mother said/' replied Thord. "I will do as she
bid me, and fight you for the sword."

Aslak sat down on a rock, and wiped a mighty hand across
his brow.

"Fight me ?" he asked weakly. "You ?"

"If you are larger than I, I am younger," asserted Thord.

"For less than that, boy, I have slain men." And Aslak 's
scowl was as ferocious as Bj ami's. "But have done. I will
not harm your mother's son — or any boastful bitling, who
finds satisfaction in raising his first crow. So think of an
other plan."

"There is no other plan," insisted Thord. "I must fight
you for the sword. You cannot refuse me in honor, seeing
that you are armed, while I — "

Aslak bounded up, with a bellow of rage.

"Who are you to talk to me of honor ? Honor — be
cause I will not slay you out of hand, and save Bjarni the
effort ! Do not try me too far."

"I do not seek to try you, but to fight you," Thord ex
plained reasonably. "Bethink you, Aslak, if I do not pro
cure the means to thwart Bjarni in wedding Astrid and win
me my father's property, I might as well be dead. And if
it be at your hands, why, that is of small account to me. So
I pray you, have at me, and give me the chance to win the
sword."

Now, the Baresark surveyed him grimly.

"With what do you propose to fight me ?" Aslak inquired.

Thord unslung the bag in which he carried his store of
food, and removed from it a length of hide-rope, very strong
and supple, to either end of which was fastened a cow's hoof.
And then he proceeded to discard his jerkin and breeches, so
that he stood only in his shoon and drawers. Meantime
Aslak stared as if his eyes would pop out of his head.

THORD'S WOOINQ 219

"You — you mean to fight me with that rope ?" demanded
the Baresark.

"Yes."

"What can you do with it ?" scoffed Aslak. "Do you
think to strangle me ?"

"No, for my mother charged me not to injure you."

The Baresark made the Sign of the Hammer. He was
dazed, no longer scornful, a little resentful.

"It is an ill-deed, boy, to mock an older man, a proven
warrior."

"Here is no mockery," quoth Thord. "It is my necessity
urges me — and my mother's. If you will lend me your
sword — "

"That would serve neither of us," retorted the Baresark.
"It would mean only bad-luck, I tell you. Grey Maiden is
true to one man at a time. Well, I will try not to injure
you. But the sword is a thirsty wench."

He shook his head sorrowfully, and started to lay his axe
on a boulder.

"Here," he offered, suddenly changing his mind. "Take
Skullshaver. It won't help you against Grey Maiden, but
I can't bring myself to hew at a defenseless man."

"That is a generous offer," replied Thord. "But I will
fight as I had planned. I should be no match for you with
the axe."

The Baresark bellowed his exasperation.

"And that is the truth. With the axe or any weapon !
This fight neither of us will find pleasure in remembering.
Look to yourself. If I can stop Grey Maiden in time, I will
save you; but — "

He rushed abruptly at Thord, the sword wheeling in an
arc of grey steel; and Thord retreated, swinging the length
of rope by its middle, so that the weighted ends were revolv
ing over his head. Youth against experience ! Cow's hoofs
against steel !

"Stand still," cried Aslak.

220 QR£ Y

"That is not the way to fight in this manner," Thord an
swered and continued retreating warily out of the long
sword's deadly sweep, his rope twirling ceaselessly.

The Baresark pulled up, snorting disgustedly.

"A poor business, youngling ! Come, take the axe, and
fight, or — "

Thord struck with appalling swiftness. Leaping in to
close quarters, he whirled the weighted ends of his rope around
Aslak's sword-arm; the Baresark instinctively jumped back;
Thord pulled on the rope, gave it a twist — and Aslak's fin
gers opened. Grey Maiden clanked on the rocks between
them and in the one motion Thord stooped and seized it,
released the rope and sprang clear.

"I have it," he said, trying not to seem as proud as he was.
"But it shall be yours again. So why should we fight ?"

The Baresark peered down at the contrivance which had
snared him, and the startled look in his face became imbued
with superstitious awe.

"No, no, Thord," he answered. "We will not fight. And
as for Grey Maiden, she is yours. She would not have left
me so, if she had not wearied of me. I suppose I did not give
her the drink she craved. So it is ! A man is young —
and waxes old. In your hands she will fare better, for I see
that you are not without guile, and that is to the credit of
any warrior."

Thord looked shamefaced.

"It was my mother's trick — "

"Ah, yes, but you wrought it. A keen eye and a sure
hand, youngling. You will make a fightingman of note,
even as I predicted."

"If you will help me," said Thord awkwardly. "I have
but begun my endeavor."

Aslak extended his hand.

"By the steel that fathered me, I am your dog ! Outlaw
or inlaw, I stand by him who wrenched Grey Maiden from
me, without holding weapon in his hand. Come, Thord, we
will arrange it so, with Elin's wit to aid us, that Bjarni's

WOOING 221

wealth and strength shall yield him little good. I perceive
a task after my own heart. Ha, this is fate ! It is doom,
boy ! The Gods willed this. Not for nothing was I cast
ashore in Elin's company, and Grey Maiden bound fast in her
sheath at my belt. It was not accident that you were born

— or that Grey Maiden sped by my arm should be Geir's
bane. I tell you the sword came into Iceland for a purpose

— as Elin and I came safe ashore, alone of four score souls."

ALL the Hornfirth folk rode to the betrothal feast. Herjolf 's
skalli resounded with the din of the feasting, for here was
more good feeling shown than at any time since Bjarni's return
— and this because Astrid was well-liked and men said the
Grasping would be more amenable when tied to a wife. So
there was shouting of songs, and boasting of exploits and
comparing of heroes, all up and down the lines of benches;
clicking of ale-horns in salutation, rapping of marrow-bones
on the board-tables, shuffling of feet of the serving-folk as
they sped hither and yon, satisfying the needs of the guests.
And on the cross-benches at the east end of the hall the buzz
of women's voices was scarce lower than the men's; but here
the talk was not of trade and fighting, but of the bride's
woebegone face, and the hard look in Aud's eyes.

"The maid has been weeping !" "Who ? Astrid ?"
"Who else ?" "Why should she, gossips ? Bjarni is a stout
champion, and a wealthy." "What is wealth without heart's
craving ?" "What right has a woman to judge her man
before she has known him ?" "True ! Well-spoken ! It
is ill-done, if maids begin to hunger for love before wed
ding." "Ah, no ! Freya knows we women are hard put to
it by fathers who think first of the husband's property and
last of his kindliness." "Yes, there is reason in that. And
Bjarni has little kindliness." "As much as Aud. It took
Elin's wit to name her the Treacherous." "What of Elin
in this ? And Thord ?" " Tis no concern of theirs. The

222

men say Thord has fled the country." "Well, he might,
poor lad, and no dishonor to him."

On the high seat, midway of the south wall where ran
the upper bench, Bjarni sat by Herjolf, his red face twisted
in a sullen scowl, his ale-horn never full. Herjolf, too, be
neath his hearty manner, was puzzled and perturbed.

"I tell you, I like it not, foster-father," growled Bjarni.

"Loki snatch me, if I understand," defended Herjolf.
"She never showed this feeling before you came home."

"Better push to a finish," urged the Grasping. "Pay over
the bride-money, and let we two ride for Geir's stead."

"Bide, bide," counselled Herjolf. "If there is undue haste,
the folk will remark it. Already, there is whispering and
head-nodding on the cross-benches."

"The more reason to be through with this." Bjarni waved
a hand toward the smoky turmoil of the skalli. "Let us go,
and there will be less occasion for talk."

"No," resisted Herjolf. "Belike, she will weep. Wait un
til dark, and — "

There was a sudden swirl in front of the Men's Door at
the west end of the hall, and steel flashed over the heads of
guests and serving-folk. Men tumbled right and left, a
thrall-woman shrieked; a bench was upset; voices exclaimed
and protested.

"Way," shouted a gruff voice. "Gangway, there ! Out
of the way, fools. We will not harm you."

Both Herjolf and Bjarni started to their feet. In the high
seat on the cross-bench Astrid leaned forward, the color
rising in her wan cheeks, an expression of unbelief, tinged
by fear, in her eyes. Aud was equally startled, but her face
mirrored anger and annoyance.

"Who comes ?" called Herjolf. "Name yourselves. Is it
necessary for you to bare steel at the betrothal feast ?"

A riot of voices answered as the strangers slowly forced
a passage.

"It is Thord P "Aslak the Baresark P "They have Elin
with them P

THORD'S WOOINCf 223

And now all the folk might see the little group, Thord in
front, a long, grey sword flashing in his right hand, his left
guiding his mother up the hall, and Aslak striding behind
them, the axe Skullshaver a blue flame on his shoulder. Elin
looked proudly, almost haughtily, at those she passed. She
held herself very erect, and her eyes shone with a light no
man might face.

"The witch !" cried Bjarni. "What do you seek, witch ?"

"My son is come to demand justice," she answered curtly.

"With an outlaw to aid him," amended Herjolf. "I see
Aslak at your back, and it is known to all that he has stolen
and slain from one end of Iceland to the other."

"As to the slaying," rumbled Aslak before Elin could
speak, "it is true I have cropped a few heads that deserved
it, whatever the law-men might say; and I have lifted a
sheep now and then from those who could afford it by way
of punishing them for the thieving they did upon folk who
were not so powerful." He eyed Herjolf tolerantly. "Yes, I
have taken many a sheep from your folds, False One."

There was a faint bubbling of laughter in the back-benches,
for every man present had had dealings at some time with
Herjolf, and knew how hard he was in compelling the terms
his wealth made it possible for him to secure. But Elin
stopped Aslak, when the Baresark would have continued.

"Aslak is come hither as my witness," she said.

"A witness to what ?" asked Herjolf angrily. "What has
that to do with Thord's demanding justice ? I think you
have come seeking manslaughter."

"And little good shall it do you," Bjarni added grimly.
"For none of you leaves this hall alive."

He made to vault over the table, and there was a scattering
of men from his path; but he paused as Thord spoke.

"Hear me, all you people," announced Thord. "I am come
to demand of Bjarni Geir's son the half of our father's prop
erty, which he has wrongfully withheld from me."

"To what purpose ?" scoffed Bjarni. "It has been estab
lished that you are base-born. Elin, your mother, entered

224

this house as a thrall, in the clothes she wore, and possessing
naught else."

Now, Elin spoke again.

"I am, and was born, a free woman," she said calmly.
"And Geir took me to wife, as Aslak shall testify. Not oth
erwise would I have gone to him, nor would Aslak have suf
fered it."

Bjarni laughed sneeringly.

"A likely tale ! And a known thief and outlaw to bol
ster it !"

"Touching Aslak 's outlawry," replied Thord, "I make
myself responsible for it. When I have obtained justice from
Bjarni I will pay any fines assessed against Aslak, and the
complainant shall set his own price."

"A fair promise," mocked Herjolf, "seeing that you are
penniless as you stand here, Thord, and shall be lifeless a
few moments hence."

"That is to be proven," Thord answered steadily. "I ap
peal to the folk here to see justice done. I have dwelt among
them my life long, and I ask any man to say if my mother
or I have wrought injury to a soul in Iceland."

Several men cried out, affirming this statement, and their
boldness encouraged others to give similar testimony.

"It is well known, Thord !" "They are good folk, Thord
and Elin." "Give the boy justice."

And then a great roar from every corner of the skalli,
women's voices shrilling through the men's, and Astrid, on
the cross-bench, staring starry-eyed at the sturdy showing
her champion made:

"Justice ! Justice for Thord ! Justice for Thord and
Elin ! Justice !"

Bjarni ripped his sword from its sheath, and he swept the
hall with a ferocious glance that marked those who shouted
loudest:

"It is in this spirit you come to my betrothal feast ! I
shall remember it, Hornfirth folk. When the harvest fails,
when your cattle die, when the fever-blight assails your chil-

THORD'S WOOING 225

dren — then come to me, and ask aid. Come, and hear my
answer !"

The shouting dwindled to a frightened silence, for there
was no doubt in the minds of the Hornfirth folk that Bjarni
had the power to cause suffering in every stead. So they
sat back, and eyed one another uneasily, half of a mind to be
lieve they had made fools of themselves.

Aud spoke acidly from the cross-bench, holding tightly
one of Astrid's wrists — so tight her grip that the girl winced:

"Here is much neighborly feeling, husband ! It has been
said that those who confer favor may look first for ingrati
tude, so we need not be surprised. But at the same time
we should not permit Thord to ride rough-shod over the legal
rights of our son-in-law. You and I had speech with Elin
after Geir was slain by Aslak, the very witness she now
brings forward in proof that Geir took her to wife, and we
know that she had no proof to offer, then. I do not see
what profit will come of this business, yet if Thord is so
foolish as to meet Bjarni in the open Bjarni would be equally
foolish not to accept the challenge and slay him."

Thord took a step toward her, and the fire in his eyes
dimmed only when his gaze slipped from Aud's cold features
to Astrid, pinned down in her seat by her mother's cruel
grasp.

"I remember how Aud persecuted my mother that day
after Geir was laid in hough," he answered, boyishly stern.
"The three of them hated us for the one reason: Bjarni wished
all Geir's property for himself, and Aud and Herjolf desired
the same thing because they would have Bjarni wed As
trid — " he paused — "against her will."

Aud leaned across the table, her eyes glittering snakily;
Bjarni and Herjolf frowned, dumbfounded.

"So !" hissed Aud. "It is to you we look, Thord, for
Astrid's tears and protests !"

And she twisted Astrid's wrist until the maid wept. But
Thord might not see this because Bjarni had vaulted the
table from the high seat and alighted on the floor rushes near

226 QR€Y

where he stood. Once more men tumbled over each other
in their haste to get from under the feet of the champions.
Aslak, axe poised to strike at need, took position at Thord's
back, and cast a keen eye around the nearby benches. Elin
stood to one side. But Thord raised his sword in a gesture
for attention.

"Hear me, Hornfirth folk ! I, Thord Geir's son, being de
prived of my just inheritance by Bjarni Geir's son, who has
also cast dishonor upon my mother, Elin, who was Geir's
wife, do challenge Bjarni Geir's son to fight me on this issue
in holmgang. It is my right to challenge, and so I do chal
lenge — and if he does not fight me on these terms, he is
niddering, and thereby forfeits the rights I challenge."

"I fight you, now, base-born," snarled Bjarni, and he
would have rushed at Thord, but that Herjolf called to him,
and there were still folk in his path.

"Bide, Bjarni," advised Herjolf. "I say naught against
the slaying of these folk, and if you will wait I will have in
my housecarls, and we will finish them; but there is no oc
casion for you to meet Thord in holmgang. If he wished
to challenge you he should have done so six years past when
Geir died, and we settled the inheritance."

Thord laughed aloud, with a savage mirth that sat ill on
his young face.

"Six years ago," he answered, "I was a boy, not half-
grown. Bjarni was a man older than I am today. Could
I have challenged him ? Ho, Hornfirth folk, you are free
men, Icelanders, who deal justice evenly, man to man ! I
ask you: is not a man who argues so putting himself in the
wrong ? Could a boy of twelve years challenge a youth of
nineteen to holmgang ? And would Bjarni and Herjolf and
Aud have plotted against us as they did if I had been able
to defend our rights ?"

For the second time a roar of approval broke from the
crowded skalli. The Hornfirth folk might fear the wealth
and power of Bjarni and Herjolf, but their elemental sense

THORP'S WOOING 227

of justice triumphed over the temptation to stand aside from
Thord's quarrel. Likewise, here was a case which might
set a precedent in future years. Every man saw that if the
right of trial in holmgang was limited they could never be
certain of obtaining justice. Cravens, especially, all cunning
fellows, would exploit such an advantage.

"Holmgang," was the shout. "Let Bjarni take up Thord's
challenge. Justice for Smiling Thord !"

Herjolf, never willing to venture against odds, sank back
in his seat, biting his fingers, pulling at his beard. Bjarni
thought only of slaying Thord.

"Bah," he shouted. "Too long have I suffered the witch
and her brat to live. Why wait for holmgang ? I can slay
him as well here."

And he leaped at Thord, but both Elin and Aslak came
between them, and when he would have cut at Elin the
Baresark's axe struck up his blade.

"Have a care," rasped Aslak. "I would save you for
Thord, carl, but— "

Bjarni gave ground, not liking the red glare in Aslak's
eye. He was as brave as most men — but few men cared
to do battle with a Baresark, and they unmailed.

"The challenge was to fight in holmgang," Elin appealed
to the bystanders. "This is not holmgang. There is little
room for footwork."

"True," agreed Aslak, "and the lighter man requires the
room. But I do not think we need worry." He grinned —
derisively at Bjarni, with confidential amusement at the ser
ried ranks of men standing back against the walls on tables
and benches. "Thord has a sword that — Well, carls, it is
a sword."

"He has the right," Elin corrected gently. "But there
must be no reason for Herjolf or another to claim the fight
was unfair."

"All I seek is the fight," snapped Bjarni. "Have done
with talk."

228

"No, no, one thing more/* cried Thord. "I ask the folk
to protect my mother and Aslak. If I should fall — which I
will not — "

A shout answered him.

"Well-said, Thord !" "Hew, and fear not." "Elm shall
go free." "We'll guard the Baresark."

"The Baresark guards himself," retorted Aslak.

He let his axe hang loose from its wrist-thong, caught
Elin under the arm-pits and swung her off the floor onto one
of the tables, where men readily made a space for her. But
she still persisted in asserting her point.

"This is a fight in holmgang," she cried. "It is a fight to
prove Thord's cause."

"Holmgang," agreed the spectators. "It is a fight in holm-
gang."

Even the women on the cross-benches leaned over their
tables, wrapt in the clash of the two champions; but of them
all none watched more closely than Astrid. And as Bjarni
sprang at Thord, and Thord met him foot to foot, with a
clatter and clang of steel that sent the sparks flying to the
rafters, she wrenched her hand loose from her mother and
gained her feet, eyes ashine, cheeks crimson.

"Hew on, Thord," she called. "Astrid for Thord ! Hew,
lad, hew !"

And the skalli echoed her, discretion forgotten.

"Hew, Thord, hew ! Justice for Thord ! Justice !"

Aud clawed at Astrid, and sought to pull her down, but
the girl repelled her mother, and other women spoke so
sharply that Aud cowered, dazed by the turn of events. On
the high seat Herjolf was in like case, chewing at his fingers,
mumbling in his beard. For what did he see, but Thord dart
ing and striking with a speed and sureness that roused the
enthusiasm of every fightingman present, the grey sword
a flicker of lightning, his strong young limbs carrying him
here and there, now inside the sweep of Bjarni's blade, now
far out of its range !

Bjarni was in a rage, fuming at the lack of instant success

CHORD'S WOOING 229

he had anticipated. He cursed and howled as Thord clipped
him in the thigh, and then danced away.

"Hold still, jumping-jack ! Do you fear the steel ?"

"Do you ?" countered Thord, and nicked his shoulder.

Panting and foaming, for he had drunk deep and his belly
was soggy, Bjarni forced himself to a speed approaching
Thord's, and tried to exploit his superior height for one of
those terrible strokes which there is no parrying; but al
ways the sword Grey Maiden flickered beneath his steel, and
Thord's lithe muscles resisted his battering strength.

The skalli went wild, and the blood-lust was kindled, so
that if the guests had not been of practically the same mind
there must have been such a folk-slaying as the sagamen had
never recited.

"Hew, Thord, hew!" "At his head, youngling!"
"Well-struck !" "Under his arm-pit !"

There were but two who kept silence. Aslak leaned on
his axe, eyes intent on the flying figures. Elin stood, with
hands clasped in front of her, and in them the little gold cross.
Her eyes, too, were on the pair who leaped and whirled and
charged and retreated in a flickering maze of steel — yet she
seemed to see something else, beyond them, something that
was beyond time and space.

Thord now was confident he had Bjarni's measure. No
longer did he dart away before his half-brother's bull rushes.
He countered Bjarni's strokes by might of arm and weapon-
skill, and the shouts of applause threatened to lift the roof-
beams. Grey Maiden heaved and swung, thrust and parried,
as though the blade was a part of him. Bjarni was bleeding
from several cuts, and the folk commenced to realize that
Thord was playing with him. Laughter spiced the applause.
And Bjarni became insane. He abandoned all caution, heed
less of his own fate, if he might slay Thord, who ignored
this recklessness, warding every attack with mocking ease.

"Be merciful, my son !"

Elin's voice carried distinct in all the hubbub, and Bjarni
faltered, his sword poised overhead.

23o

"The witch spells me," he muttered.

Then Thord struck, a low, sweeping stroke that caught
Bjarni in mid-thigh and hewed his legs from under him, and
Bjarni crashed down on the floor-rushes, his stumps spouting
blood, but he clutched at an overturned bench and pulled
himself erect for a moment, his sword yet poised for the
blow he had not dealt.

His eyes fixed Elm's, malignant, hateful, defiant.

"Your doing, witch," he gasped. "Come with me !"

And he hurled his sword straight at her breast. It turned
once in air, hilt over point, a flash of light in the dimness,
sped by the last strength of his body even as he collapsed in
death. But Grey Maiden flew faster. Thord cast the long
blade like an axe, and once more it parried Bjarni's blow.
The two swords clattered at Elin's feet.

Aslak sprang to pick them up.

"What said I, Thord ?" exclaimed the Baresark, tendering
Grey Maiden. "It was not for nothing this sword and I and
Elin came into Iceland together. There was fate in it !
The Norns spun our skeins with the one bobbin."

But none heeded Aslak. The folk in the skalli were shout
ing:

"Hewing Thord!" "Well-struck, Thord!" "Well-
hewed !"

And the women on the cross-benches were helping Astrid
to climb to the floor, and Thord was trying to make his
way to meet her, Grey Maiden dripping in his hand.

Aslak was quick to perceive the situation.

"Way for Thord," he commanded lustily, brandishing
Skullshaver aloft. "Gangway for Hewing Thord !"

And the folk parted before them, so that Thord took Astrid
in his arms under the high seat where Herjolf gloomed. Aud
had fled, tears of rage in her cold eyes.

From the north side of the hall Elin watched what passed,
and if her heart ached, she curbed her feelings with resolute
courage. Youth to youth ! It was as it should be.

"Herjolf !" she called.

's WOOING 231

The folk turned toward her. Herjolf ceased chewing his
fingers, and eyed her shiftily, conscious the tide of opinion
flooded against him, fearful of Bjarni's fate.

"This was a betrothal feast," she went on when she had
attention. "It was ill-planned, but that has been remedied.
It would be discourteous of us to slight your hospitality, so
I counsel you that we continue the feast. I seem to see a
blither look in Astrid's face, and — "

The laughter of the Hornfirth folk drowned out her voice.

"Well- wooed, Thord," they cried. "Ho, what a wooing !"

"I suppose it must be," said Herjolf sulkily.

"Yes," agreed Aslak in the same tone. "It must be."

"Ho, ho, ho," shouted the Hornfirthers. "A rare jest !
Thord's wooing ! Ho, ho, ho ! Pay down the maid's por
tion, Herjolf. More ale ! More ale !"

XI

AFTER this Thord was known as Hewing Thord, and he be
came one of the most famous men in Iceland. He kept the
sword Grey Maiden until his death, and much glory he won
with it, both in outfaring and infaring. So highly was he
regarded that when Olaf Tryggvi's son became King in Nor
way he sent word to Iceland that he wished Thord to visit
him that he might do proper honor to one whose deeds had
carried across the Western Ocean; and the skalds tell how
Thord assisted King Olaf in many exploits.

He lived to a considerable age, and he and Astrid had
many children. From them descended several lines of worthy
folk, warriors, skalds, seafarers, and priests, who were settled
in the south of Iceland. The most noted of these was Snorre
Sturla's son, who collected the Heimskringla Sagas, which
tell of the deeds of the Kings of Norway.

When King Olaf, of blessed memory, dispatched Thang-
brand Willibald's son to preach the White Christ in Iceland
none helped Thangbrand more than Thord, and Elin was
not behind her son in bringing the people to accept the new

23 2 QRSr

faith. It was she who set Aslak to slay Arne Dag's son,
of the White River dales, when he told the folk at the All-
thing that it would not profit them to turn from Odin's wor
ship and the Old Gods. Aslak earned much sanctity by this
and other slayings in behalf of the new faith, and the end of
it all was that he became a monk. He hung up his axe
Skullshaver in the chapel of his monastery, and the folk
called it God's Axe because it had been the bane of so many
heathen.

Close by, on Oxenlava, Elin dwelt in a convent Thord
built for her, and here she died, and it is said that feeble
minded folk who were brought to her tomb had their wits
restored to them. Whether this is so or not, it is certain
that she was a very wise woman.

This is all of the tale of Thord 's Wooing.

Chapter VII
THE GRITTI LUCK

LITTLE man in jester's motley looked down from
the top of Neri's Tower upon the hulking mass of
Castello Gritti, crouched on its promontory like a
great stone monster ready to leap from the shadow of the
Apennines into the dancing blue waters of the Adriatic.
Opposite him, and on a level with his eyes, rose the round bulk
of the Gate Tower, where watchmen moved restlessly in the
hot Spring sunshine. Below, the life of the fortress droned
its normal course: hoofs thudded in the tilt-yard, and curses
bellowed upward as old Gianni schooled a batch of green
men-at-arms; a leisurely clanking and clanging marked the
location of forge and smithy; in the forecourt crossbow-bolts
whizzed at target-practice; a few sentinels lounged on the
walls — and from the green bower of the garden that nestled
in their seaward tip came a shrill clamor of woman's laughter.

The jester skipped lightly to an arrowslit commanding that
side of the castle, an expression of whimsical amusement
on his ugly, brown face. When he moved, the muscles rip
pled and bulged under his tight garments, with an effect
of power in startling contrast to his diminutive stature.

"Per Bacco !" he muttered. "You are no sluggard, Ma
donna Lisa."

234

A man's laugh, hoarse, perhaps a trifle tipsy, echoed from
the garden.

"Ho, ho, Old One," grinned the jester. "And you — you
are as fat in your mind as of your person. They are wily
folk in Venice. Trust to the Signoria !"

The woman's voice rose again in a snatch of song, lilting
and amorous; but the jester's attention was distracted by a
stir amongst the watchmen on the Gate Tower. They
pointed southward along the white ribbon of the Coast Road,
which looped and coiled between the foothills and the shore,
and the jester had no difficulty in identifying the object of
their curiosity: a sparkling clump of lance-points, poised
momentarily on one of the elevations in the road.

The jester pursed his lips in a soundless whistle.

"Home rides Guido — and halts to look to sea ! Can
Young Nicolo be on the way, as well ?"

He shaded his eyes, and peered keenly southeast across the
sapphire-blue expanse of the Adriatic. Yes, far, far off, on
the utmost horizon, the sunlight was reflected from the
square sail of a galley. The vessel, itself, was yet invisible,
but the little man in motley imagined how it skimmed the
waves like a multi-legged dragon, oars swinging, whips crack
ing on the naked backs of the slaves. Always in a hurry,
Young Nicolo, in his calm, imperturbable fashion.

A race, eh ? Guido's men-at-arms galloping north on the
road as Young Nicolo drove his galley for the landing-cove
inside the fish-hook bend of the promontory, just beneath the
garden where Madonna Lisa was now laughing again as if
some tremendous sport was forward, and Old Nicolo was
gurgling and grunting and apparently — if that waving of
branches meant anything — pursuing her clumsily.

The little jester laughed, in his turn.

"A family reunion, signori ! Per Bacco, what affection !
All of us together — Madonna Lisa, the Old One, Young
Nicolo, Black Guido — and me ! Yes, forget not Ciutazzo,
Magnificent Signori. The Gritti, the Signoria and the Em-

235

peror ! Ho, ho, all but the Po — Now, may the devil fly
off with me ! Who is this ?"

From the foothills inland a second road debouched to join
the Coast Road at the miserable village which huddled at the
base of the promontory on which the castle stood. Down
this road strode a single figure, bare-footed, bare-legged,
dusty brown robe flapping at his heels, cowl thrown back to
expose sunburned face and tonsure.

"A most purposeful monk," commented the jester. "How
he strides ! No wanton, wandering, pilfering shaveling,
this fellow. Not he ! He goes upon an errand — hither-
ward. Yes, hitherward, beyond a doubt. And that errand
can be but the one. But it is too excellent a contrivance for
credibility. It would round out the picture. We should
have completeness. And why not ? Why not, I ask, per
Bacco ? Shall the Holy Father be excluded from the board ?
Impiety ! So shall Ciutazzo sharpen his wits, and win to —
win to — Now, what in Mary's name shall I win to ?"

He rubbed his clean-shaven chin, and pondered the ques
tion, then skipped with his peculiar airy ease of motion to
ward the trap which opened on the tower-stair.

"Time enough to think of that," he decided. "I'll con
sult the Gritti Luck. Yes, yes, that will be best. Let the
Luck decide !"

ii

THE warders in the gateway laughed uproariously as Ciu
tazzo turned a somersault into their midst, with a merry
jingling of the tiny hawk's bells which edged his garments.
A frown showed on the dour features of the friar, whose
interrogation was so abruptly interrupted.

"How, now, brown brother ?" exclaimed the jester.
"There is dust on your feet, there is sweat on your brow.
You have travelled far. Who are you ? Whence come you ?
Whither go you ? Are you for Pope or Emperor ? Milan,

236 QRCY

Venice, Genoa, Padua, Pisa ? Your own man or Abbot's
man ? Pilgrim or beggar ?"

The friar's face hardened. It was a stern face, square-
jawed, with close-set lips and eyes that burned steadily.

"I am called Fra Pietro," he said shortly. "I am of the
Minorites. I travel upon God's business."

Ciutazzo peered vacuously at him. Gone the shrewdness,
the alert intelligence, which had characterized him when
alone. He seemed almost the natural, pertly ignorant.

"A Minorite," he babbled. "One of the flock of the
blessed Francis, eh ? But you haven't the look of your
brethren, Fra Pietro. A scurvy lot — dirty, withal — for
ever whining and thirsty."

"You talk of your betters," Fra Pietro answered contemptu
ously. And turned to the warders: "Must I waste time
with this jingle-jangle fool ? I asked for your lord."

One of the warders bowed, humorously apologetic.

"If you would see Old Nicolo, let Dogface be your usher,
good brother. He has our lord's ear. A mighty droll fel
low."

The friar's hot eyes stabbed into Ciutazzo's.

"Ah, yes, there is none can make Old Nicolo laugh like
me," the jester babbled on. "Come with Ciutazzo. I know
where he takes his pleasure. I know how to approach him.
Ah, yes, and I know what he plots and schemes. Who bet
ter than Ciutazzo ? Ciutazzo, who makes him laugh when
the black moods are on him, and who waves his bauble be
tween Young Nicolo and Guido when their swords are half-
drawn ! Per Bacco, there is none in Castello Gritti knows
more than I, brown brother."

"Christ's truth," swore a warder.

"Loose talk," reproved the friar. "Our Lord God's name
in vain, and a heathen oath ! You show no grace, you of
the Gritti's folk."

The warders scowled, and Ciutazzo intervened quickly.

"Why, as to that, brown brother, no priest stays long with
us, and those who have come wrought little good. What

rne

with the slayings and burnings and wenchings and stealings
and — "

A warder coughed warningly. Fra Pietro crossed himself.

"Where the devil sows, I plough," he said. "Come, Ciu-
tazzo. Show me to Lord Nicolo."

The jester turned a back-somersault, landing expertly on
his feet.

"Follow, brown brother," he directed. "I'll take you to
him. He's in the garden — with Madonna Lisa." A vacant
grin distorted the gnarled features. "Perhaps there'll be work
for you to do — a wedding, eh ? But that's not his way.
Not of late years. We take, but we wed not, we of Cas-
tello Gritti."

The warders chuckled covertly, but Fra Pietro kept silent
until he and his guide were in the forecourt, behind the
line of crossbowmen practicing at the butts ranged against
the opposite stable wall.

"You have been here long ?" the priest inquired then.

"I ? Per Bacco — Oh, pardon, brother ! I meant to
say: no. I came last year about this time. They gave me
food and clothes. I make them laugh, keep Old Nicolo from
slaying his sons, his sons from cutting each other's throats.
We are all content. So I stay."

"The devil's own, these Gritti," murmured the friar. "But
who is Madonna Lisa ?"

Ciutazzo stole a glance at the iron face of the man beside
him.

"She whom the Signoria sent," he prattled. "Did you not
know ? Everybody — "

"The Signoria ?" broke in Fra Pietro. "You mean Venice ?
The Doge's Council ?"

"Who else ? Old Nicolo was there a month since, selling
some of the plunder, and a great lord — Oh, belike it was
the Doge, himself ! — gave her to him. A fine, sleek wench,
brown brother. Red-haired, but a thought too plump for
my fancy, and — "

"And what do his sons say to this ?" pressed the friar.

23 8

"Oh, they curse and quarrel and tell him he is old and
worthless. But if he gives them the chance — ho, ho, ho !
hee, hee, hee ! — watch them, brown brother ! Just watch
them ! Per Bacco, Young Nicolo has looked at her more
than once. He has an eye for her kind. And Guido, he
fears her because — because — "

He appeared to flounder awkwardly, in doubt whether he
should continue what he had been about to say.

"Yes, yes," Fra Pietro prompted him. "Go on ! Go on !
Why should Guido fear her ?"

The pair had reached the top of the ascent from the
forecourt to the upper range of buildings. Over the land
ward walls might be seen the hazy skyline of the Apennines.

Fra Pietro's hand, a large, calloused, powerful hand,
clutched the jester's arm.

"You hurt me, brown brother," Ciutazzo reproved him
gravely, and the friar relaxed his grip, in his preoccupation
failing to note that his fingers had been able scarcely to dent
the jester's mesh of muscles.

"But you have not answered me," chided Fra Pietro.
"Why should Guido fear Madonna Lisa ?"

The jester glanced cautiously around them.

"Why, you see," he confided, "she is for Venice, eh ?
And Guido, he — he is for — "

"Who ? The Emperor ?"

Ciutazzo shook his head.

"Not he ! He leans toward the Holy Father."

Something that might have been a sigh escaped the friar's
lips.

"And Young Nicolo ?" he asked. "Is he, too, for our
Holy Father ?"

Ciutazzo snickered.

"You know not the Gritti, brown brother. No, no !
What one is for the other is against."

"Ah, then, Young Nicolo is for the Emperor ?"

"I said it not, for I know it not." The jester swelled out

<TH£ QRirri JCUCK 239

his chest with a comic travesty of pride. "He keeps his own
counsel, does Young Nicolo."

"But he is not for Venice ?"

Ciutazzo considered this.

"Most likely, not. For then he must agree with his fa
ther — and he would almost as soon agree with Guido as
with Old Nicolo. Oh, a brave den of wolves ! Hands
always on sword-hilts, teeth always bared, a curse on every
tongue."

He started to enter a wide, arched doorway, but Fra
Pietro restrained him, gazing out across the forecourt and
the land walls at the vista of the hills.

"It is a fair place, jester."

"And a strong," agreed Ciutazzo, his puckered eyes in
tent on the friar's. "The old Romans built it, men say, and
this I know: that all men crave it today. Young Nicole's
galley levies tribute at sea, and Black Guido 's men-at-arms
take toll of all who travel on the Coast Road. Ah, nobody
can pass by Castello Gritti. In Venice they call it the key to
the Adriatic. The Emperor says who sits here might pour
troops as he would into the South. And the Pope — "

"Never mind the Pope," Fra Pietro rebuked harshly. "It
is not for vermin such as you to speak lightly of him who
holds Peter's Keys, who sits as God's Viceregent on earth."

"An uncommon warm seat he has, brown brother," quoth
the jester.

And when the priest glowered at him gave back a step and
added innocently:

"But that is what all say ! He and the Emperor are for
ever at each other — like Young Nicolo and Black Guido.
And the Venetians flout him, and the other cities ignore him
and in Rome the nobles brawl on his doorstep. Why, many's
the Pope has been in fear of his life in Rome !"

He waxed confidential.

"Now, you have the look of a great man to me, brown
brother. Yes, yes, per Bacco, you might be a Lord Cardinal.

240

You might be Pope, yourself ! But if I were you — "

"I have not asked your advice," exclaimed Fra Pietro.
"You are to lead me to Lord Nicolo."

"At once, at once," the jester fawned eagerly. "This way.
Through the hall, and then — "

His tongue clacking on, he secretly hugged himself with
satisfaction.

"Touch, that time !" he recorded. "You are not what
you seem, Fra Pietro. Nor are you concerned for our souls.
Tonsured you may be, but you would not be the first church
man who could survey the strong points of a hold. What's
toward ? Is this the day I've waited for ? Shall we scat
ter the pieces on the board, and play at chess like the Em
peror and his knights ? A brave pastime ! But be wary,
Dogface. Be humble."

in

THE hall was a wide and lofty chamber, two rows of pillars
down the middle and at the end a dais of stone, backed by a
fireplace and carven chimneypiece, in front of which were
placed a long table and half a dozen chairs of state. But
what caught the friar's eye — and held it — was a mystical
grey shimmer of steel, slanting across the chimneypiece.

"The Gritti Luck," he murmured.

"You have heard of it ?" the jester queried softly.

"Who has not ?" countered Fra Pietro, and swiftly tra
versed the empty chamber, ascending the dais as one ac
customed to his own way.

"Ha," commented Ciutazzo, "you sit above the salt, brown
brother !"

Fra Pietro checked himself, and a mask of humility settled
upon his features.

"A poor friar, without wealth or ambition, may walk with
out fear of temptation, jester," he answered in a tone of
mild rebuke. "Surely, there is none here my curiosity may
harm."

TH8 GRITTI £VCK 241

"None," Ciutazzo agreed whimsically. "But you will not
accuse me of curiosity if I say you are the first friar I ever
saw interested in a sword."

"There is much you have not seen," retorted the friar.

"There you have me," admitted Ciutazzo, executing a little
prancing step. "And what do you make of it, brown
brother ?"

Fra Pietro peered up at the long, straight blade, with its
plain steel hilt. The light from several narrow windows,
high up in the west wall, bathed the chimneypiece in radi
ance and showed clearly the strange series of letters, signs,
and symbols etched and bitten and scratched in the sword's
flat surface.

"There is more writing on the other side — against the
stones," remarked the jester.

But the friar paid no attention to him, spelling slowly the
lowermost of the visible inscriptions:

Li demoyzel griz
Ma vengance }e priz.

"It is a French blade, then," he muttered to himself.

Ciutazzo goggled at him comically.

"A friar who reads !" wondered the jester. "A very
monk ! But you are wrong, brown brother. That may
be French, that writing; but the sword is older than France
or Italy. There is Latin on it. There is Greek on it. There
is Arabic — or so said the Saracen hakim from Palermo, who
bled Old Nicolo the last time he over-ate himself. Yes, and
there are tongues no man can put a name to."

The friar stared up at the lean, shimmering mystery of
the sword — and presently looked away, as if the reflection
of the sunlight in the grey whorls dazzled him.

"As old as evil," he growled.

"As old as death, more likely," replied the jester.

And the gravity of the tone drew a sudden, penetrating
glance from Fra Pietro. Ciutazzo giggled inanely.

"And that would be as old as the Gritti, eh ?" he rumi-

QRC r

nated aloud. "For they are lords of death — oh, very proper
signori ! At least, since Old Nicolo's grandfather won the
sword at dice. He — the grandfather, old Annibaldo, you
know — was expelled from Venice — killing a doge's son or
some little trick of that kind — and fled to France. He was
down to his last byzant when he won Grey Maiden here
from a Provencal knight in a main that ran all night in the
Bishop's guardroom at Carcassonne. His luck changed from
that day. He made a pile of ransom money; raised his own
company; hired out to the Florentines; sold them to the
Milanese; deserted to the Holy Father — who, they tell me,
paid him in indulgences rather than coin — not that he
didn't need them, per Bacco ! — and took this place by
treachery from the Chiessi, who probably had it by the same
means from whoever sat here before them. And old An
nibaldo bade his son consider Grey Maiden the luck of the
Gritti. The luck of the Gritti she has been ever since; they
won't even carry her in battle. Oh, no, she hangs there on
the wall, and if they don't say mass to her it isn't for want
of respect."

The friar crossed himself.

"Heathen superstition ! It is sufficient to jeopardize the
souls of all within these walls."

"Humph," commented Ciutazzo. "I know not as to their
souls, but I am certain their bodies would be jeopardized if
aught happened to the sword. The Gritti would be as fear
ful as any man-at-arms. They, who, with it, are arrogant
as princes !"

"Yet they seek alliance with the Venetians," objected Fra
Pietro, his eyes darting sidewise at the jester.

"Not Young Nicolo — or Guido, either ! Young Nicolo
says the Gritti need no alliance with folk who must pay
tribute to them in any case. Trust to the Luck, says he.
Guido — saving your presence, brown brother — says to hell
with Venice ! If we traffic with any overlord, let it be the
Pope."

"He speaks wisely," the friar said warmly.

rne QKirn J;UCK 243

"Wisely ? In sooth, yes !" Ciutazzo Js homely visage
was entirely vacant. "The Pope, says Guido, is an old
woman, who can not compel us to anything we dislike; but
we might always have occasion to wring favors from him
— for which we need pay little. So he plumps for the Pope."

Fra Pietro crossed himself again.

"The brood of Satan ! And the Emperor ? Does none
speak for him ?"

The jester pondered the question.

"Why, there is Young Nicolo. He is not for the Em
peror. He is for Young Nicolo. But I suppose he would
sooner be for the Emperor than for his father's Venice or
Guido's Pope."

"Infidel that he is !" cried the friar. "All infidels ! Such
as they are no better than the sons of Mahound. Hell gapes
wide for them."

"That is as may be," Ciutazzo observed impartially. "We
hear sorry tales of your churchman. And the Gritti are not
likely to come to harm while they have the Luck. After all,
they are no worse than Ruggieri, who bred Old Nicolo, or
Annibaldo, who bred Ruggieri."

Fra Pietro studied the jester's hazel eyes that held a pecu
liar hidden glow, buried deep beneath their childish twinkle.

"Strange, no man has stolen the Luck," he remarked. "It
might be thought — "

"Many have tried," chuckled Ciutazzo. "And all have
died."

And added inconsequentially:

"There are serving-folk watching us this moment."

"St. Paul !" the friar exclaimed involuntarily. "You dis
tort my meaning, Dogface. Guard your tongue."

"Ah, but my tongue is privileged," chuckled Ciutazzo.
"None so privileged as I in Castello Gritti. I jest with Old
Nicolo. Come, I'll take you to him — in the garden, where
he toys with Madonna Lisa. Hee, hee, hee ! They were
clever, the Venetians. The Madonna, she has a surer grip
on Old Nicolo than much gold would have bought them.

244

But wait until Guido rides in ! Wait until Young Nicolo is
up from the cove ! Wait until the supper wine is served !
Ho, ho, ho!"

He leaped his own height in air with a jingling of bells, and
danced a few steps, preening himself like a peacock on a
lawn.

"Only wait, brown brother ! Ciutazzo is a rare show
man. And first, I will show you Old Nicolo at his ease.
Speak him gently. He is quick, for all his fat — and what
is a friar to him ? Ho, ho, ho ! What, indeed ?"

Fra Pietro shuddered, despite himself.

"You have a foul tongue, Dogface," he rebuked. "Priv
ileged or no. Lead on."

IV

OLD NICOLO'S enormous body bulged out of a creaking arm
chair, placed in front of a green tangle of olive trees in a
shady corner of the garden where the seawind blew through
an opening in the walls. His little squinty eyes were veiled
by the fat buttresses of his cheeks and a thick mat of beard,
scarcely shot with grey. His mouth was a red slash, studded
with stubby white teeth. A beaked nose, netted over with
crimson veins, jutted from his swollen face. On one velvet-
clad knee he poised a golden flagon of wine. A great square
hand, its strength concealed under layers of fat, stroked the
red curls of Madonna Lisa, who sat on a stool against his knees,
twanging at a gitern.

"So it is to have strong sons," he was saying. "Why should
I work, who have reared them these many years ? No, no,
this is my time of ease. Work them, Madonna, work them so
that they sweat ! So I'll keep them from conspiring against
me. Make them hate each other always, favor one, then the
other, whisper tales, eh ? Tell one the other says — But
what's this, Ciutazzo ? You come unannounced, with a
stranger ?"

TH€ QRITTI £UCK 245

Ciutazzo executed a caper, and made pretense of kissing
one of Madonna Lisa's hands.

"No stranger, Lord Nicolo," denied the jester. "A brother
in God, yes, a brown brother. The holy Fra Pietro, who
was faring past, and thought he would tarry to inquire for
the state of your Magnificence's soul and pass a mite of gos
sip, withal. I met him at the gate, and plucked him hither.
Was I not kind ? Was I not thoughtful ?"

Fra Pietro bowed stiffly, folding his hands on his chest.
Madonna Lisa pouted. She was, as Ciutazzo had described
her, buxom of person, languorous, moulded in ample curves,
her skin a perfect blend of pink and white hues, her hair
tortured by chemicals to an unnaturally vivid red. The true
type of Venetian beauty.

"Only a priest, Dogface !" she protested. "From all your
pother I had expected entertainment."

"I am content," spoke up Old Nicolo, with a sly gleam in
his pig-eyes. "And you must be content with me, Madonna.
God wot, there is enough of me !"

His paunch waggled to the rhythm of his laughter.

"Whither go you, priest ?" he challenged curtly.

"On God's business," Fra Pietro responded in the same
phrase he had employed with the jester.

"That means nothing." Old Nicolo's voice was per
emptory. "Whence come you ?"

"From Rome."

"So ! You travel for your Order ?"

"In part, Lord."

"Ah! And in part — "

"I bear messages for the Holy Father to those of his sup
porters on my way," returned the friar, seeming to conquer a
certain reluctance.

"By my Luck, I do not question that !" proclaimed Old
Nicolo. "And I doubt not, too, that you make report of
what you see on the way."

"A traveller's tales always find hearers," evaded Fra Pietro.

246

"I have known it to be so," the fat man agreed ironically.
"How were matters in Rome when you left ?"

The friar twisted his hands in the cord bound about his
waist, choosing his words carefully, speaking deliberately.

"The Holy Father is still in health, not so hale as some
might wish — "

"Nor so pindling as many of my Lord Cardinals could de
sire," burst in Old Nicolo, contorting his huge face in a
satyr's grin.

Madonna Lisa laughed shrilly. Ciutazzo pranced and
jangled his bells.

"How if Fra Pietro be a Lord Cardinal ?" he demanded.
"Look to the sternness of him, Lord Nicolo ! Look to the
air with which he comports himself !"

Old Nicolo squinted malevolently at the friar, who denied
hastily:

"May Christ forgive the wastrel his loose talk ! I a
Cardinal ? Lord, a Cardinal does not walk the highways in
brown robe and bare feet. I am a humble brother of the
Minorites — the rule of St. Francis."

"So !" grunted Old Nicolo. "Perhaps you speak truth —
albeit, if so, you are the first friar of that stamp ever I saw.
Well, well ! And what of Rome ? The Holy Father is in
health. Hath neither over-eaten nor over-drunken, eh ?
And how go his affairs with the Emperor ?"

The friar's face darkened appreciably.

"That tool of the Evil One !" he barked. "God pity one
so distraught. There can be no pity on earth. He labors
still in the mire of confusion, heedless of God's commands,
selfish, wilful, ignoring the needs of Christendom."

"He'll not go on the Crusade?" Old Nicolo prompted
drily.

"He evades, Lord."

"And the cities ? The Princes ?"

Fra Pietro shrugged his shoulders.

"It is as always. They consult their own ends."

"And rightly," approved Old Nicolo.

me QRirn J;UCK 247

"There are more ends than one for each of us," the friar
said slowly. "Bethink you, Lord, he who scorns the Holy
Father merits ill of God."

Madonna Lisa smote a chord upon her gitern, a jolly, mock
ing chord.

"He prates like Black Guido," she cried.

"So he does," assented Old Nicolo. "You waste breath
upon me, priest."

Fra Pietro drew a step nearer.

"Lord Nicolo," he began earnestly, "there is more than
heavenly vantage for those who aid the Holy Father. What
prince of Christendom is greater ? Year by year, the power
of Rome increases, and the day shall dawn when all the world
owns the sway of the one ruler — him who rules in the name
of God, who holds Peter's keys !"

Old Nicolo yawned.

"I am for amusement, friar. You were not bidden to
preach."

"Perhaps I buy and sell," Fra Pietro answered signifi
cantly.

Again Madonna Lisa smote her gitern, and the plump fin
gers of one hand fastened upon Old Nicole's mighty fist.

"A friar to speak of buying and selling with the Gritti !"
she scorned.

"The fellow merits flogging," boomed her master. "What,
knave ? Have you a message for me ? If so, speak it. If
not, begone !"

Ciutazzo heard the clank of armor behind them. So did
the friar, who stiffened appreciably.

"Here is Guido," cried the jester.

Fra Pietro relaxed.

"Lord Nicolo," quoth he, in proud humility, "I am a poor
friar, and of no account by myself; but it is true that I travel
upon the Holy Father's affairs, which are God's affairs — "

"With that some of us beg leave to differ," interjected Old
Nicolo.

A gigantic figure, all shining in black mail, a black tor-

248

rent of beard pouring from the opened visor, strode into
the garden. Black eyes blazed ferociously in a swart face;
a cruel mouth was pressed close. Huge, like his father, but
with none of his father's fat, Guido was both similar and
dissimilar to Old Nicolo. He walked slowly, ponderously,
trampling a flower in his path rather than turn aside; Ciu-
tazzo skipped out of his way, jingling merrily, laughing into
Madonna Lisa's startled eyes.

"My brother is not returned ?" he asked harshly.

"Not yet," answered his father.

Guido stared from one to the other of them.

"Who is this priest ?" he demanded.

The friar named himself, preserving the appearance of
self-sufficiency which had impressed Ciutazzo.

"He is from Rome," amended Old Nicolo a thought sourly.
"A messenger. The Pope would buy us. That was what
he said, eh, Dogface ? He buys and sells."

"I will talk to him," said Guido.

Old Nicole's eyes gleamed savagely.

"I am the chief of the Gritti," he warned. "It is my word
which carries."

Guido glanced sneeringly at the woman at his father's feet.

"If I sell the Gritti, I sell them for a decent price," he
replied.

"By my Luck !" Old Nicolo started up, hurling Ma
donna Lisa aside as brutally as Guido might have done it.
"You'll not talk so to me, boy. Not while my word runs."

Ciutazzo danced airily between them.

"Peace, peace, signori," he commanded. "Shall we brawl ?
Must we mishandle lovesome ladies ? And in face of Holy
Church ? Per Bacco, signori, all Italy is rent with war !
In Castello Gritti, alone, is peace. And what do I hear ?
Hark ! Who comes next ?"

He halted, and as his bells jingled into silence all heard
the rattling of oars below in the cove, the cracking of whips,
the harsh, panting grunts of the galley-slaves — "Ha !

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Hoo-oo ! Huh!" — veering the craft in to its moorings.
An order was shouted, repeated, and men's feet pattered on
planks.

"Young Nicolo," said the jester. "Soon the party will
be complete, signori."

Old Nicolo extended a massive arm to Madonna Lisa, cow
ering on the ground by his empty chair.

"Up with you, sweeting," he ordered gruffly. "I'll not
quarrel with these devils I begot unthinking."

He dropped into the chair, and she sank beside him in her
former position, darting a single stab of hatred from under
her heavy lashes at Guido's lowering form.

Old Nicolo pointed a menacing forefinger at his son.

"Mark you, boy," he thundered. "You are no lamb and
I am no ram — but there are marches to my patience. You
to your diversions, I to mine. And the policies of the Gritti
are my concern. I do not push my head between the shields
of Pope and Emperor — let other fools be crushed to cream
cheese, if they will. I sit back, and pluck what comes un
der my nose. And while I live I rule here."

Guido's jaw squared angrily.

"Yes — while you live," he answered. "Come, friar, I
have somewhat to say to you."

Fra Pietro hesitated, with more of nervousness than he had
yet revealed. Old Nicolo grinned wickedly.

"Go with him, fellow. Tell him all you know. Offer
him all you can pay. It will serve you ill, and harm me
none."

"But what of Ciutazzo ?" cried the jester. "Who will
serve Ciutazzo ? Belike, signori, you will all serve him —
all serve Dogface, who makes you laugh !"

He waved his hand to Madonna Lisa, who smiled at him
without mirth, and danced away amongst the bushes.
Tinkle-tinkle, rang his bells. Jingle-jangle ! Fainter —
fainter. But he was not gone. Esconced behind the trunk
of a centuries-old olive-tree, he spied upon the grassplot where

2 50 QKCY

Old Nicolo sat, head bent to Madonna Lisa's ear, while both
eyed intently the disappearing backs of Guido and Fra
Pietro.

"There was poison in her look," whispered the jester to
himself. "Yes, and there is poison in the cock of the Old
One's head. Lords of death ! They are like serpents, twi
ning and twisting, striking their venom into each other.
Hatred is the one emotion they know — hatred and lust.
Walk warily, Dogface. Be humble."

He stole quietly from the garden, planting his feet de
liberately, clutching his bell-hung garments, lest their sil
very voices betray him. At a door behind the dais in the
hall he peered around a curtain's edge to where Fra Pietro
sat at the high table close by Guide's elbow, above them the
shimmering mystery of the Gritti Luck.

"What is a single fief ?" the friar was saying. "What is
it to be a simple baron, lord of one castle, however strong ?
The Holy Father is generous, Lord Guido. He can afford
to be, for he holds all Christendom in fee, and those he
favors — "

Ciutazzo chuckled.

"Poison," he whispered. "I smell it. It is in the air.
Men speak it — and breathe it. Even I ! But who dies
last, Dogface ? Ha, that is the question ! Who dies last ?"

AT THE water-gate the jester encountered Young Nicolo,
breathing easily despite the steep ascent from the cove. A
splendid figure, Young Nicolo, sinewy limbs clothed in green
velvet, a green cap with a yellow feather on his blue-black
hair that was cut at the line of his clean-shaven jaw. Splen
did, yet sinister. Yellow cat's-eyes that met every scrutiny
with a blank glare, face that mirrored cruelty, for all its
grace of contour. Tall and lithe and shapely, men feared
Young Nicolo most of the Gritti; they could never be sure

TH€ QRITTI £UCK 251

of him. He was reserved where his father and Guido were
loud-mouthed, kept a grip on his temper and killed without
so much as a curse by way of warning.

"What sport, Ser Nicolo ?" hailed the jester.

Young Nicolo ignored the question.

"My brother ?" he asked shortly.

"He rode in an hour since," replied Ciutazzo. And added
casually: "Hard on the friar's heels."

A flicker of interest showed in Young Nicole's stony gaze.

"What friar ?"

"From Rome, Lord. He talks of the Pope and the war."

"With my brother ?"

"They sit at the high table."

There was no sign of interest, now, in Young Nicolo's
features; but the atmosphere was charged with a psychic
tension which warned the jester of the rising storm of hatred
in his heart.

"My father ?" he asked.

"The Lord Nicolo is in the garden," Ciutazzo answered
charily.

-With — her?"

The jester nodded, fascinated by the conflict he sensed in
the other's breast.

Young Nicolo looked out to sea, not a nerve or muscle
quivering. When he spoke again he affected to be immersed
in the view.

"You see everything, Ciutazzo. You are privy to all that
goes on in Castello Gritti. Why do you stay here ?"

"I was hungry, Lord. I have a roof — and food and
drink."

"You could earn as much elsewhere."

"I do not think the Old One would let me go," said
Ciutazzo simply. "But I am content."

"Where did you come from ?"

Young Nicolo directed the full force of his yellow eyes
upon the jester's, and Ciutazzo made no attempt to evade
the inspection.

252 QR£Y

"But that is known to you, Lord," he protested. "I am a
stroller. All Italy is my home."

"You have a Saracen look to you," charged the other.

Ciutazzo spread out his hands ; his features settled into lines
of friendly stupidity.

"I can remember, Palermo, Ser Nicolo. But that was when
I was very young."

"And you have never seen the Emperor ?"

Almost the jester smiled, but twisted his lips in time into
a grotesque grimace.

"Ah, yes ! On his horse once, ahawking. And again,
when he rode with his knights to the North."

Young Nicolo's manner became subtly threatening.

"And do you suppose you could find a means of approach
ing so august a person, Dogface ?" he inquired.

For two or three breaths Ciutazzo locked his eyes with
that menacing stare. Then he nodded blandly.

"But yes, Lord. A jester may go anywhere."

"Even to the Emperor ?"

"Well, Lord, you should know better than I, who am only
a poor fellow," the jester answered reasonably. "But I have
heard the Emperor's Court is a fine place for entertainments,
so I make no doubt all folk of my persuasion are received
there."

"If I could trust you !" muttered Young Nicolo.

"Why not, Lord ?"

"And why ?" returned Young Nicolo. "I trust no man.
If I use you, Dogface, it will be because you fear me. Re
member !"

"And when do I go ?" questioned Ciutazzo, capering joy
fully.

But he froze into servility at the first glare from the yellow
eyes.

"I have not said you shall go anywhere," snapped Young
Nicolo. "I have no occasion for curious servants. Put a
buckle on your tongue or I'll have it out and send you to
an oar in the galley."

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He paused.

"Be within call this evening," he went on. "Near the
dais — within the crook of my finger. And keep silence."

"Yes, Lord ! Oh, yes, Ser Nicolo. Ciutazzo — "

"I said: 'Silence !' " cautioned Young Nicolo, and faded
into the passage leading to the living-quarters, his foot-steps
falling as delicately as a cat's, his head bent in thought.

Ciutazzo hugged himself.

"Silence, quoth he ! There'll not long be silence, signori !
The Old One playing for Venice, Guido harkening to the
Pope, and Young Nicolo conning his profits with the Em
peror. And Dogface ? What of Dogface ? A brave con-
dottiere you'd make, per Bacco ! There's two can run your
course, Ser Nicolo. But watch the Madonna, lad. She'll
set the tune. Always a woman to set the tune !"

VI

LIGHT streamed down upon the dais from a dozen lamps,;
Byzantine and Saracen work, and to the shocked amazement
of Fra Pietro tall altar-candles burned at intervals in the
depths of the hall, where myriad shadows played hide-and-
seek across the stolen tapestries that draped the walls. Ciu
tazzo, crouched on the dais floor in a dark corner, his arms
clasped around his knees, kept his ears attentive to the snarling
debate at the high table, but his eyes were concerned with
the flooding shadow play and the mystic radiance of the grey
sword that hung above the fireplace.

Sometimes, the sword would seem to disappear, swallowed
up in darkness as a draft sent the light eddying roofward or
hurled a wave of shadows to submerge it. Again, it would
dominate the room, shining out upon the wall, with an evil
lustre as uncanny as the spiritual wickedness which radiated
from the Gritti, who brawled beneath it. And another time
Ciutazzo thought it flared amongst the shadows, half-seen,
half-hidden, like a shy maid, averse to over-much attention.
But even as he watched the light smote it once more, and

254

it flared hardily, a streak of power, lean as Young Nicolo,
brutal as Black Guido, sly as their father — but more, much
more, instinct with a strength that was timeless, limitless,
inhuman.

The jester blinked up at it.

"What is life to you, Grey Maiden ?" he ruminated. "Ha !
What is flesh to steel ? Something to hack, eh ? And men
think you are but a tool. I wonder ! How often have you
urged the blow ? How often did you prompt the deed ?
Per Bacco, as I watch you, you lure me — to — what ?"

He cocked an ear toward the table.

"Patience, Dogface. This is a matter that can not be hur
ried. Yes, yes, he who lets sword or greed or wench give
him the spur, he strives for him who waits. Who dies last ?
That's the question."

The argument waxed louder. Madonna Lisa long since
had fled. Fra Pietro, in no wise embarrassed by the seat at
the high-table Guido had allotted him, was yet disturbed at
the yelling and bellowing of Old Nicolo and his patron —
Young Nicolo spoke seldom, and then in measured accents;
occasionally, the friar sought to mediate, and inevitably, the
conflict became the more bitter thereby, Young Nicolo
grinning tigerishly and prodding both to renewed assaults
whenever they revealed signs of flagging animosity.

"Bah, you are a wineskin, not a man," fumed Guido.
"What have you ever done — "

"Ever done ?" roared his father. "I reared a viper in you,
boy ! And I maintained the Gritti in the fear of all Italy.
You'll never do the same."

"You sold yourself to the Venetians — for what ? A
woman, a — "

Old Nicolo pounded his dagger-hilt on the table.

"There are limits my own son may not pass," he cried.
"And it is not true I sold aught to the Signoria."

Young Nicolo struck in.

"You had naught of them, Old One ?"

"Not a ducat."

THC QRirn JCUCK 255

"Only that red-haired — "

Young Nicolo interrupted Guido.

"Why do you think Lisa was given you ?" he asked, mildly
venomous. "Because your friends in the Signoria admire
you ? Would serve you ? Because you are a fine figure of
a man ? Because she demanded to come ?"

"You talk foolishly," swaggered Old Nicolo. "She was
a bribe — and not the first I've accepted, with my tongue
pouched where it belongs: in my cheek."

"A bribe," repeated Young Nicolo. "Yes, a bribe ! And
what do you think she does here ? Besides cozening you ?
How much do you think the Signoria know of our gar
rison and stores, of the way we operate, of the castle ap
proaches ? She is no innocent ! She could bribe a guard,
open a gate — "

"I was not born yesterday, boy," fussed his father. "By
my Luck, you talk like a child ! Is it amusement you be
grudge me ? Are you jealous ?"

Laughter dripped coldly from Young Nicolo's lips.

"Jealous ? Yes, of being sold to a master I despise."

"The Venetians are masters," exclaimed Guido. "They
would own us, body and soul. We should be pandered to
for a while. Then — Zut ! Some day there'd be treachery,
and the Gritti — "

He drew an expressive finger across his throat.

"But the Pope ! Ah, there is an ally for you, easy to
serve, generous — "

"You have learned your lesson well, Guido," mocked his
brother, with a meaning eye upon Fra Pietro.

The friar accepted the challenge.

"Call the Pope master, Lord," he said boldly. "Why run
from the truth ? The Holy Father is master, not only of
Italy, but all Christendom. But he is a kindly master, and
appreciative."

"And forever bleating that the Emperor disdains him or is
disrespectful," gibed Young Nicolo. "He can not compel
even the Romans to respect him. And you would have the

256 CfRCY

Gritti become his men ! Not I ! If I took a master he
should be strong enough to make me fear him."

"What of the Signoria, then ?" demanded his father.
"Venice is feared."

"A city of merchants," scoffed Young Nicolo. "And what
is Venice compared with the Emperor ?"

"Or the Pope ?" exclaimed Guido. "Venice is out of it,
I say. Italy is torn betwixt Guelph and Ghibelline, betwixt
Pope and Emperor. The Emperor is a mighty prince; none
mightier — save one. The Pope is more than prince. His
dominion stretches into Heaven and Hell. His power is
over souls as well as bodies."

Old Nicolo gaped scornfully.

"That a son of mine should prate like any shaveling !"
he growled. "You are an apt scholar, Guido. If this is
how you grow, lapping up priest's chatter, gabbling of souls
and heaven and the devil knows what — By my Luck, it is
well we have the sword there to hold up our fortunes ! I
can see you are not the man to further us."

All four at the table followed his forefinger to the slim
blade of the sword over the fireplace. The light was rip
pling the length of the grey steel, ruddy as warm blood —
and Fra Pietro, for one, crossed himself, as though he sensed
the evil Ciutazzo also felt.

"If you trust in the Luck, why treat with any prince
or power ?" asked Young Nicolo.

His father's big, blunt finger came down like a lance in
rest.

"I am older than you, boys. I can see that the days I have
known are past. The cities are growing stronger; the nobles
are joining one faction or another. But I would not com
mit myself any more than I must. The Emperor and the
Pope are too big for me; they could bide their times, and
at the right moment gobble us in one bite. But Venice would
be different. The Signoria — "

"They'd treat us as you predict," rumbled Guido. "And

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what honor is there in acting as castellans for a crew of
merchant- traders ?"

"I am of the one mind with Guido, there," drawled Young
Nicolo. "But what honor is there in buying titles from a
dawdling old priest, who lacks the guts of a man-at-arms ?
We might be princes under the Pope. I'd rather be a count
under the Emperor — if we must hoist another banner beside
ours."

Fra Pietro's face flamed wrathfully, but Guido took up the
cudgels for him.

"And what advantage would we win from allegiance to
the Emperor ? The Venetians are north of us, their galleys
are always at sea. Across the Apennines is Rome, and the
Holy Father has allies on every hand. The Emperor is south
in Sicily, when he isn't beyond the Alps in Germany. Much
good he'd do us ! We'd earn a title, and the privilege of
riding at his tail. And Fra Pietro says he must soon go on
the Crusade, in which case he'd require one of us to attend
him, with our best spears."

"The devil take Fra Pietro, and the Pope along with him,"
snorted Old Nicolo.

The friar lifted hands in horror. Black Guido looked sol
emnly angry.

"That trenches on blasphemy," he said slowly.

Old Nicolo's little pig-eyes sparked fire; he raised his hands
in mimicry of Fra Pietro, and burlesqued Guido's tone.

"Our Guido fears blasphemy ! Did you hear him, Ni
colo ?"

"I heard," Young Nicolo assented. "We are far apart,
we three."

Ciutazzo, from his corner, marked the sinister note that
underlay this interchange. He stiffened at the abrupt final
ity of Old Nicolo's manner.

"Guido, you are no man to turn religious. No, no, be
quiet while I speak ! Not the Pope, himself, if he labored
day and night for a month could absolve you of your sins.

25 8 QRCY

Therein you are my son, and I am proud of you within
reason. But do not make the mistake of thinking that be
cause I am old and fat I must step aside and let you or your
brother manage the affairs of the Gritti."

His chest boomed as he thumped it.

"7 am the Gritti ! It is I who decide policies. You — "
he levelled that stumpy forefinger of his again, this time at
Fra Pietro — "y°u> f riar> I have suffered you to hear this
discussion because there is no harm that you or any other
can wreak upon me while I sit here in Castello Gritti, with
the Luck over my head. Go from here, and tell all — all,
I say ! Tell the Pope I despise him. Tell the Emperor he is
a time-waster, afraid of strong measures. Tell the Venetians
I work with them so long as it suits my purpose. Tell
any man anything. You can not harm Nicolo dei Gritti.
And when I can not manage my own sons — Ah, why,
then, he can have this castle who will take it."

He sank back in his chair, and Guido leaned across the
table toward him, beard bristling, cheeks ensanguined, fin
gers opening and shutting — as if they reached for a dagger,
Ciutazzo thought.

"You stretch my patience, Old One ! What ? You sit
here, at your ease, toying with that red-haired spy, and we —
my brother and I — we must take the toll that keeps our
company together. We must take the risk of the road, ven
ture the galleys of Venice, the Saracens, the Emperor — for
you ! For your lousy profit ! Ho, Young One — "

But Young Nicolo shook his head gently, a mild gleam of
amusement in his yellow eyes.

"This is your quarrel, Guido," he said. "It is on your
head. We work better alone. A man must trust another
to—"

Guido cursed him with an awful malice and earnestness
that chased cold shivers up and down Ciutazzo's spine. But
the jester forgot this as he noticed the friar's face. Fra
Pietro had ceased acting a part; he was watching the Gritti
with the level interest of one who gauges a quarrel which

me QRirn JCUCK 259

may conceivably work to his personal profit. Calm, a hint
of disdain in the curve of his lips, he sat entirely aloof from
the hateful atmosphere of his surroundings. It was he who
finally curbed Guido's rage.

"Curses are ill weapons, Lord Guido," he remonstrated
sternly.

Guido lapsed into silence.

"At least, there are others," he sputtered sullenly.

Ciutazzo, inching forward, saw the red glare Old Nicolo
bent upon his son. And the jester was as nonplussed as the
rest when the chief of the Gritti burst into raucous laugh
ter.

"We are a rough brood, eh, friar ?" he cried. "Minions
of hell, you say. No doubt, no doubt ! I say with pride I
have shown mercy to none who could not enforce me to.
But our tempers are stretched tonight, over-stretched. Our
throats are dry. It is poor quarrelling, with a dry throat."

He clapped his hands, and the hangings of the door be
hind him were pushed aside to make way for Madonna Lisa.

"You called me, Lord ?" she asked.

"No, no, the servants, Madonna."

"I sent them forth," she answered humbly. "They —
voices were raised — "

She glanced apologetically from under her long lashes. Old
Nicolo patted her shoulder approvingly.

"The servants in Castello Gritti are used to high words at
the high-table, Madonna. But you shall serve us. Bid them
fetch us wine — some of that Apulian vintage the Young
One found in the Sicilian dromond. It is fiery enough to
burn out our tempers."

She laughed softly, understandingly, and glided back
through the hangings.

"Strange," commented Young Nicolo. "I do not find
myself thirsty."

"My throat is a furnace," snarled Guido. "If I ordered
the castle we should not have to send for wine."

"All in time, my Guido," rebuked his father. "You

260 QRCY

would not have the holy friar think you wished to hasten
me to my grave ?"

Old Nicolo's grating laughter brought the cold shivers
again to Ciutazzo's spine.

"The devil comes for his own at last," grunted Guido.

But Fra Pietro intervened before the quarrel could be
resumed.

"If wine quiets tempers, let us apply wine, signori," he
said in his deep, resonant voice. "But in truth here is no
reason for temper. Three several courses, it appears, are open
to you, and of you one is sponsor for each. I, it is true,
am prejudiced a certain way, yet am I able to perceive the
reason which abides in other men's prejudices, and if you
will suffer me to speak of the position of the Holy Father
I am certain you will put your minds upon the problem
with a clarity conformable with wisdom."

"You know not the Gritti," Young Nicolo murmured
lazily. "But continue, friar. You make me think of waves
thundering on the rocks — which are unf retted by all the
pounding and wetting."

"Give the waves time," returned Fra Pietro. "There is
no rock they will not annihilate."

"Ah, but I am not interested in time," objected Young
Nicolo. "My little day suffices me."

"Let the friar talk," rasped Guido.

"Yes, yes, let him talk," agreed Old Nicolo, peering over
his shoulder at the door through which Madonna Lisa had
vanished.

It seemed to Ciutazzo that there was a hint of eagerness
in his bearing.

VII

" — so Kings and Emperors are but mortal, whatever be
their pretense to majesty; but Holy Church is immortal.
Pope follows Pope. Christ reigns eternal. And what are
men-at-arms and crossbowmen compared with the winged

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words of innumerable preachers? Both forces the Holy Fa
ther controls. Force of flesh and force of spirit. Who can
resist him — "

"Ha, the wine," exclaimed Guido. "Your pardon, Fra
Pietro, but this talking makes dry work. We shall all be
the better for a sup of the Apulian."

The friar's brow had darkened at the interruption, but he
made no comment, leaning back in his seat with his hands
folded squarely on the table in front of him. The Gritti
all leaned forward, hands outstretched for the goblets Ma
donna Lisa offered them — booty of many a raid and piracy,
poised on a tray of handbeaten silver from Morocco. She
stopped first by Guido, tendering him a golden chalice
that once had held the sacramental wine in a Syrian cathe
dral.

"You were thirstiest, Lord Guido," she said prettily.

He accepted it with a grunt of thanks, and buried his
mustache in the ruddy liquor it contained. Ciutazzo,
bright-eyed in his corner, marked Old Nicolo incline farther
forward, and simultaneously, Fra Pietro wave away the com
panion to Guide's chalice.

"You show no respect for my cloth, woman," the friar
growled angrily. "That vessel was consecrated to the Blood
of our Saviour."

"Surely, then, it will not harm you to drink from it,"
she answered, smiling. And Old Nicolo snarled:

"Take what is given you, shaveling."

"I fear you are abandoned to primitive superstitions, good
friar," jeered Young Nicolo, his yellow eyes afire with de
rision.

But Fra Pietro pushed the chalice from him, doggedly
persistent.

"I have broken bread with you," he said; "and I will
drink with you, albeit from another — "

He extended his hand toward a slim goblet of hammered
silver, but Madonna Lisa retired hastily.

"No, no," she stammered. "The chalice — "

262

And she looked uneasily at Old Nicolo. Ciutazzo hugged
himself the closer, matching the feral gleam in the Old
One's little eyes with the sudden tenseness in Young Nicolo's
still face. The jester was not surprised as Guido hurled his
chalice from him, features drawn and anguished, hands pluck
ing at the air.

"Poison," groaned Guido. "Poison, friar ! The red-
haired devil !"

She had watched him, fascinated, from behind Fra Pietro's
chair, and now, with a clumsy readiness, he kicked his own
chair back and stumbled toward her. She squealed and
dropped her tray, so that the wine splashed on the friar's
brown robe and the lovely goblets rolled upon the floor.

"Not I, Lord Guido," she clamored. "He told me — I
was bid — "

She turned to flee, her foot slipped in a puddle of wine
and Guido clamped one hand upon her shoulder; his dagger
flashed from his belt — down — swift as summer-lightning
— the hilt clicked smartly on her collarbone — she screamed !

Ciutazzo, on his knees, clinging to a fold of tapestry,
saw her swing limp from Guido's arm, then tumble in a
heap of sodden finery. And Guido, the dagger dripping in
his hand, caught at the friar's chair, steadied himself and
reeled round the table's end.

"You, Old One !" he gasped. "Your doing. A thousand
pains gnaw me. Curse you !"

Old Nicolo gained his feet, with the extraordinary agility
of which his huge body was capable.

"Yes, I bade her do it," he said scornfully. "So perishes
any son of mine who thinks to supplant me. I lead the
Gritti, boy ! You are food for worms as you stand."

And lightly as Ciutazzo, he leaped onto his chair and
snatched the sword Grey Maiden from its place above the
mantle.

"While I have strength to swing the Gritti Luck, I am the
Gritti," he boasted.

'Too bad" old Nicolo deplored. "This needn't have happened
for years, lad"

264

The sword circled his head, lambent, alive, terrible in its
menace, hissing faintly as it split the air.

"For so long, Old One," agreed Young Nicolo, lounging
comfortably as if nothing had happened. "But I am not so
stupid as Guido."

Fra Pietro started up, aghast, but unafraid.

"This is mortal sin you do," he cried. "Lord Guido, I
command you — "

"Let the boy die as he pleases !" roared Old Nicolo. "Ill
give you my blessing later."

He jumped from the chair, and waddled to meet his son;
and Guido, mastering the agony of the poison, staggered erect
and reeled on.

"Too bad," Old Nicolo deplored. "This needn't have hap
pened for years, lad. But I couldn't let you flout me to my
face. It's true what the Young One says. He's not so
stupid as you."

"May every torment of hell be yours," sobbed Guido.
"If my mother — "

He lurched, and falling, lunged forward with his dagger.
Old Nicolo stepped to one side, and ran him through, tak
ing an obvious satisfaction in the precision of the thrust.

"His mother," reflected the chief of the Gritti. "Humph !
She it was who would have run off with the Frenchman from
Naxos — the year after you were born, Young One. I re
member ! We — ah — entertained her very passably. I
had a Greek in the kitchen, then, who made a delectable dish
of sheep's hearts."

"Give heed to the friar," Young Nicolo advised him im
partially.

Old Nicolo smiled at the fury of detestation in Fra Pietro 's
face. And again Ciutazzo, huddled in his corner, sensed
one of those tempestuous outbursts of psychic energy which
are loosed by strong characters in moments of deep feeling —
"Ha, brown brother," thought the jester. "Are you one will
face the devil in his lair ?"

"You must acquit me of any desire to be unpleasant, shave-

me QKirn JCUCK 265

ling," remarked Old Nicolo pleasantly enough. "But you
would try to make trouble in Castello Gritti. So it must
be a lesson to you. Sad, eh ? Two folk slain, and your
fault — Or shall we lay the blame to the Holy Father ?"

"You are possessed by the Evil One," the friar exclaimed
hoarsely. "Satan leers through your eyes. Yes, there is a
devil in you ! Behind me ! Behind me, I say ! Get thee
behind me, Satan !"

He flourished his crucifix, and Old Nicolo nodded cyn
ically.

"You would say that, friar. A man always seeks refuge
in superstition when he encounters an evil stronger than his
own. Now, I am generous and broadminded. I recognize
my own evil — and yours, too. You came here to trick
me into your master's course, and you did not scruple to en
deavor to set my son against me. But you are startled be
cause I slew that disobedient son — yes, that traitorous son.
I believe I have grounds for my action in Holy Writ, but
once more, I am not disposed to share the responsibility. I
did it because I deemed it to my own interest to make away
with a son who would have fought with his brother, if not
with me. Now — "

"Now," drawled Young Nicolo, "you and I may poison
and wrangle, undisturbed. Well, we are better matched,
Old One."

"Better," admitted his father. "You see how it is, friar ?
You tried and failed. And having plotted murder, you must
bear punishment."

Fra Pietro did not quail.

"Perhaps it is I who shall punish," he answered. "But it is
fruitless to talk of punishing such as you in this world. Only
the hell your son wished you can avail."

Old Nicolo's pig-eyes twinkled amusedly.

"Ah, yes, I have heard much of that hell ! I assure you,
if there is such a place Guido is tapping on the door. And
I regret to seem to hurry you, but I must send you the same
road."

266

Fra Pietro regarded him steadily, then looked down at the
pitiful heap that had been Madonna Lisa — and from that to
the inert clay of Black Guido, whence trickled a dark-brown
stream to mingle with the stains of poisoned wine and trollop's
gore.

Ciutazzo chuckled noiselessly, clasping boney knees. A
man, this friar ! Per Bacco, what a scene ! Fat Old Nicolo,
Grey Maiden's slim shape pendant from his hand, and across
the table the squat, heavy-set figure of Fra Pietro, with only a
crucifix for weapon. And Young Nicolo, lolling back and
enjoying it all.

Fra Pietro moved; his fingers fumbled at the cord around
his waist. Old Nicolo nodded approvingly.

"That's right. Get ready. Say your prayers, friar."

"Per Bacco," cried Ciutazzo, and Young Nicolo half-rose.

So swiftly that none of the three who watched compre
hended his intent, Fra Pietro ripped off his brown robe, and
cast it like a net over Old Nicolo's head and shoulder. The
coarse cloth draped down about the fat man's sword-arm,
binding and hampering him. He could not see; he could
only wave his sword and yammer curses. And while he
struggled, the friar vaulted the table, and tripped him.

Young Nicolo was on his feet, at last, yellow eyes ex
panded, a tinge of color in his olive cheeks; but Ciutazzo
saw that he moved deliberately, in no apparent haste.

"What are you doing, friar ?" he inquired coolly.

Panting and wrestling, fighting for a grip on Old Nicolo's
sword-arm, Fra Pietro ignored the question, until he had
contrived to loop his waist-cord around his enemy's throat.
Then he gave a great tug, and as Old Nicolo gagged he turned
a flushed face and answered:

"It is forbidden us to draw blood. Therefore I strangle
the wretch."

"So? You strangle the — wretch," Young Nicolo re
peated. "But he is my father, good friar."

"He is Satan," retorted Fra Pietro, and tugged the harder.

<TH£ QKITT1 £UCK 267

A single whistling cry escaped his victim; the huge body
leaped in a convulsive spasm, and lay still.

Fra Pietro detached the fingers that clasped the sword, and
stood up in his shirt, sweat beading his forehead and thick
neck, blood oozing from a small cut in one of his hairy,
brown legs.

"It is not fitting that I should be an executioner," he said
composedly; "but the man was a murderer, and moreover,
would have slain me. I will make due report to my supe
riors."

"Indeed ?" asked Young Nicolo. "You will have much
to tell your superiors."

The friar gave him a keen look.

"That is so, Lord."

Young Nicolo's eyes expanded and contracted, staring un-
winkingly the while.

"That sword you have is the symbol of my family's
power," he remarked curtly. "Hand it to me."

But Fra Pietro shook his head.

"This is a den of sin," declared the friar. "Perhaps I shall
require a weapon."

A deadly note rang in Young Nicolo's voice.

"I ask the last time," he threatened. "That sword is the
Gritti Luck."

Fra Pietro laughed contemptuously.

"The Gritti Luck? When it suffered your father to be
slain by an unarmed man ? You speak of a foolish and god
less superstition. No, no, Lord Nicolo, I will take the sword
and presently throw it in the sea. And do you lead a decent
life hereafter or the Holy Father will — "

Young Nicolo's dagger glinted from its sheath; his right
arm crooked forward. Fra Pietro ducked and retreated;
Nicolo pursued, cheeks pinched and chalky, lips bubbling
curses. Slow-moving, the friar, yet firm on his feet and
vigilant, wielding the sword with a strength that atoned for
his awkwardness: an odd figure in flapping shirt-tails, con-

268

trasting weirdly with Nicolo's supple, coiling form in green
velvet that shone golden under the lamps.

Nicolo pressed the fight. He cared little that the friar had
a sword, while he had but a dagger. The friar was a friar.
He was Nicolo dei Gritti. So round and round they stamped,
feinting, foining, blades rattling, breath hissing, tripping on
the corpses, slipping in the runlets of blood, eyes intent on
each other, heedless of Ciutazzo, flattening himself against
the hangings — Per Bacco, what a night ! One, two, three
dead folk, and —

Young Nicolo snatched one of the chalices from the floor
and flung it in Fra Pietro's face. The friar stumbled blindly,
and Nicolo closed, hacking and stabbing in a frenzy of
hatred; but Grey Maiden flashed up like a living thing, a
dazzling, shifting web of steel, and Nicolo yielded ground,
panting from his efforts.

Fra Pietro, too, retired a pace, unhurried, cautious. And
the pair stood motionless in the glow of the lamps — stood
motionless so long that Ciutazzo blinked his eyes in the
strain of watching them. And as he blinked, Nicolo leaped
to the attack, a very tiger's leap, sure and ferocious, the dag
ger hooked like a great claw to disembowel the friar. Ah,
but the friar had not blinked ! Grey Maiden whistled om
inously, a flat arc of cold light — Nicolo collapsed in mid
air. He lay, outstretched as he had leaped, his feet by his
dead father, one balled fist touching the clay of the brother
he had hated.

"So pass the Gritti," Ciutazzo exclaimed aloud.

The friar peered stupidly at the jester's motley, then down
at Nicolo's headless body and the red-gemmed blade of the
sword that winked at the two living with a kind of savage
mirth — almost as if it knew what had been wrought with its
aid, Ciutazzo thought.

"This is mortal sin," said Fra Pietro. "I have shed a man's
blood. I must have absolution."

"If you will," assented the jester amicably. "And I will
have the sword."

<TH£ QKITT1 £UCK 269

"You, jester ? Nonsense ! What will you do with a
sword ?"

"Use it, at need," returned Ciutazzo. "The castle must
have a master."

"A jester rule in Castello Gritti ?" Fra Pietro frowned sus
piciously. "Who are you ?"

"I am called Ciutazzo," the jester answered straitly.

"Whose man are you ?" persisted the friar.

"This night ? Per Bacco, my own !"

Ciutazzo took a step toward the other, lithely, easily. Fra
Pietro presented the sword.

"No, no, stand fast. I suspect you, Dogface. And I have
won this castle for the Holy Father."

Ciutazzo seemed to consider this, sliding one foot forward,
turning sideways, a hand resting upon the chair in which Old
Nicolo had sat.

"For the Holy Father, eh ? Why, that is to be seen, brown
brother. Suppose, now — "

He paused, aggravatingly, and rubbed his chin. Fra Pie
tro eyed him askance.

"Suppose what ?" snapped the friar. "If you think to stir
up the castle folk against me I will have you banned, yes, and
imprisoned. Be off, and summon men to clean up this sham
bles."

"Bide, bide," protested Ciutazzo. "Here is much to be de
cided. Suppose, as I was about to say, we declared for the
Emperor ?"

Fra Pietro made an impatient gesture.

"You are a pestilent animal, Dogface. Go, and call the
servants."

"All in good time," answered the jester.

He picked up Old Nicolo's chair as casually as though it
had been a foot-stool, and with no more warning than Fra
Pietro had given Old Nicolo in casting his robe, he threw
it half the width of the dais. The friar was swept over
the edge, his head snapping back with a hollow crack against
the stone step; the chair shattered to pieces; and the sword

27o

Grey Maiden leaped free of Fra Pietro's lifeless grasp, soared
up to the roof and clattered on the table within arm's reach
of Ciutazzo.

The jester lifted the long, slim blade, fitting his hand lov
ingly to the plain, fluted steel grip of the cross-hilt, balancing
the weight upon his wrist.

"Ah, you beauty," he murmured. "What other sweet
heart would a man have than you ! Per Bacco, you have
slashed many a road to fortune, I'll wager ! Why not mine ?
Birth — what is that ? Name — what is that ? I have a
sword — and a castle for the taking. Many a condottiere
has started with less."

Feet shuffled down the hall's shadowy aisles; he had a
glimpse of pale faces, hovering, prying; a whisper echoed in
the silence.

"Ho," he cried, "enter, my people. You have had a change
of masters. See, the Gritti are dead ! Madonna Lisa, too.
And this friar. Now, Ciutazzo rules in Castello Gritti."

They poured up the hall, men of the garrison in the lead,
under-officers, crossbowmen, men-at-arms, a scattering of up
per servants.

"Who has done this, Dogface ?" quavered old Gianni, who
had been with the Gritti, men said, since the Luck came into
the family.

Ciutazzo waved an airy hand about him.

"You see the dead, Gianni. You see me. And you see
in my hand — "

"The Luck," rose a whispered chorus. "He has the
Luck !" "The jester has slain them all." "Was ever the
like ?" "Dogface has the Luck."

"Lord Dogface, if it please you," Ciutazzo corrected them
merrily.

"But you are a jester, Dogface — I mean Lord — I
mean — " Gianni floundered desperately. "You — perhaps
we should slay him," he appealed to the others.

Ciutazzo raised Grey Maiden significantly, and the mob of
retainers swayed away from him.

TH€ QKITTI JCUCK 271

"I am come from the Emperor," he announced. "I hold
Castello Gritti for him, as his man. And you owe me al
legiance because I have won the Luck."

He glanced down at the proud, sinister features of Young
Nicolo, whose head had rolled toward the dais edge.

"Who dies last ?" he murmured, chuckling faintly. "Eh,
Grey Maiden, who dies last ? That is the question, per
Bacco !"

The castle folk receded from the hall, muttering and cross
ing themselves.

"He talks to the dead," they whispered. "Yes, and to
the sword." "Was there ever the like ? A jester to be
Lord !" "But no ordinary jester." "And he has the Luck."
"The Gritti Luck !" "Ah, but it was no luck for them."
"There is magic in this." "Yes, yes, black magic."

But old Gianni wagged his head disapprovingly, safe in the
outer corridor.

"A man does not use magic to break people's heads and
stab them," he declared bluntly. "Ciutazzo — " He bowed
hastily in the direction of the hall — "Lord Ciutazzo is a
great man in disguise. Perhaps one of the Emperor's knights.
We must serve him well. Now, if it had not been for me,
some of you foolish fellows would have gone in there, and
said more than you should — and whisk ! — "

A woman whispered from the hall door.

"He stays there — with them — the Lord Jester. He sits
on the table. His chin is in his hand. He is looking at
them. He speaks — See, his lips move."

She fled, and all the folk with her.

On the dais, Ciutazzo continued to sit, alone with the slain.
The fire had burned out of him, and the exaltation.

"I shall aways wear motley," he was thinking. "Life is a
jest. To succeed one must be a jester. Eh, Grey Maiden ?
You should know — who have pointed so many jests. Ha,
lass, we'll jest together. Let the humor out of men's bodies !
What say you, Fra Pietro ? And you, Madonna Lisa, who
were so fair ? And the Gritti, so strong, SQ treacherous, so

2/2 QR£ Y

cruel, so certain ? What did you have of your religion and
your lusts and your power and your cunning ? A jest, only
a jest ! A breath of life — and death. That I might profit
from you ! The sword was mightier than all of you, might
ier than I, who live longest. So walk warily, Dogface, be
humble ! Some day the jest must be on you."

Chapter VIII
A STATEMENT FOR THE QUEENES MAJESTIE

A statement prepared for the Queenes Majestie concerning
the casting away of the galleon St. Jago de Compostella in
the parish of Tinsham, in Dorsetshire, the night of All Hal-
lowes in the yeere of our Lord 1588, and especially the
strange relacioun of the Illustrious Senor Don Martin Alonzo
de Viraflores, Maestre de Campo of the Terza of Arragon
and sometime Master of the Horse to the famo^^,s Captain
Hernando Cortes; here set down by M. Humphrey Dawkins,
clerk, Rector of the said parish, at the direckcion of Sir
Myles Conyers, Knight, of Friars Minton, in Dorsetshire,
Deputy Lieutenant of the same.

IT BEING afternoon of the feast of All Hallowes, and
the "Westerly gales continueing to blow most prodigious
(as hath been the case since the dispercioun of the late
Invincible Armada, the invincibility whereof was put to the
touch by your Grace's valliant subjects) there come a mes
senger from the fisher-folk by the shore, acrying they seed a
tall ship drifting in under Portland Bill. Whereupon Sir
Myles Conyers and the gentry his friends did do upon them
their swords and cloaks, and sallied forth that they might
endeavor what was needful and as seemed them best. And
being come to the shore, we had clear sight of the ship,

474

a stately vessel of three tier of ordnance, and above 500 tuns
burthen, high- built in the Spaniards' fashion; but fearfully
ravaged in her spars and cordage by reason of the battering of
the seas.

Of the gentry here gathered divers had fared westward ho !
with Sir Myles in the venture of the Gods Providence of
Poole, and M. Dawkins, Rector of the parish, who writes these
lines, was tooken by the Spaniards out of the R.evelacioun
of Plimmouth, off La Vera Cruz, in the yeere '72, and was
two yeeres in the dungeons of the Inquisition in the city of
Mexico — and for the proof of the above statement hath
to this day the marks of the Rack, but for a sure ointment
to the said hurts the recolleflcioun that by God's favour he
endured all torments and was faithful to Christ His Church.

The gentry, clapping their heads together, made no doubt
the stranger was a Spaniard, and for preference one of those
ships of the Armada which fled North after the fighting in
the Narrowe Seas and circumnavigated these Islands. The
which many of the Armada have attempted, as your Majestic
must know, and being caught by the prevailaunce of the
aforesaid Westerly gales (raging this year, as by God's mercy,
with the awful might of Divine wrath) do be blown ashore
and shattered utterly, as we do heere, both upon the coasts
of Scotland and Ireland, and latterly hereabouts on the South
erly coasts of your Realm of England.

In the circumstaunces here recited, Sir Myles took heed
that he should prepare a right hearty recepcioun for the
Spaniards, did they come ashore, so he sent messengers in
haste to summon the shire levies, and ere evening we were
joined by a multitude of stout fellows, with rich store of
long bows, arbalests, handguns, musquets, pikes, partisans and
like tools of warre. But in the meantime the Spaniard was
in such plight that we perceived we had no need to fear
him, for the devil had catched a twist of his tail about his
bowsprit, and was hauling thereon to fetch him to destruk-
cioun at our feet.

In the beginning, he having weathered the Bill, our mar-

The Spaniard drifted straight upon our shore

2/6

iners did acclaim it possible he might fetch eastward of our
coast and wear around St. Albans Head into Studland Bay,
or perchance, wafting onward, even contrive to reach Solent.
There was likewise the chaunce, however slender, that by
seamanship and a slight shift in the wind, he might beat un
der the lee of the Bill. But all these prognosticaciouns were
barren in the result. For lack of seamanship or sails to
spread or more like because his tiller was amiss he could make
no head at all and drifted straight upon our shore. And we
gave thought rather to the salving of such poor wretches as
were washed to our feet than to the array of our troop and
the readiness of our weapons.

By now it drew toward evening. There was no rain, but
the clouds hung low and the light was dull and sullen. Our
shore was crowded with folk, and as the Spaniard drifted
nearer we might see the desolacioun of his state, the huge
waves which did oversweep him and the struggles of his
crew to resist the suck of the waters. Man by man was
carried away from his waist, until all who could find standing
room were packed upon the fore and after castles or clung
to what was left of the rigging. It was most piteous to be
held, albeit we knew them for Papists and enemies, who had
voyaged hither in the intent to harry and enslave us; and
by Sir Myles his favour I did venture a brief prayer in be
half of their sin-laden souls, in the midst of which they
struck upon the shoal the fisherfolk call the Blind Pig.

We heered faintly the screeches of those shooken off by the
shock of the ship's taking ground and the after-rush of the
waves that pooped him, and we might see how the wreck of
the masts went by the boord, the foremast in its fall crash
ing down upon the forecastle. Ten score souls perished in
that first moment, for this was a great ship, a galleon of the
first rate, and there were fifteen score in her company at her
putting forth to sea. Verily, a judgment such as Heaven
doth frequently vouchsafe in your Majesties behalf.

The darkness thickened apace, with a driving scud that
blew in from seaward and blinded those at the water's edge.

FOR THe QU££N£S JMAjeSTie 277

However, Sir Myles bade our people to put aside their weap
ons, and stand hand-in-hand as deep into the waves as was
safe that they might pluck from the water the Spaniards
that were borne inshore; and the people went to their task
with a right goodwill, cheering one another and reckless of
their own sakes. And by the suggestion of M. Dawkins
there were two great fires lit, the which shed their rays afar
across the waters. But for all the efforts we made there was
not one soul saved. Bodies aplenty, but none that lived.

Sir Myles would have had the fishermen launch a boat to
carry him beyond the surf, and four who had sailed with him
westward ho ! offered themselves, albeit they said freely
they should row to their deaths, whereupon M. Dawkins did
intervene, and calling Sir Myles to mind that it would not
serve your Grace or prophet his honour to lose his life, Sir
Myles was pleased to desist from his plan, the which was
roundly endorsed by the gentry present, who said, as with
one voice, that every Englishman must consider the Queenes
Majesties service before his own ambicioun.

So passed the night, until near morning the wind dropped
and shifted into the East. But the seas were running high,
and since few bodies were coming ashore, the fisherfolk
counseled Sir Myles that he should wait for daylight when
they might better steer a course. Nay, they said, belike the
Spaniard hath gone to pieces. But to this Sir Myles wagged
his beard, and pointed to the slender wreckage which had
drifted in.

And he was right, as the first streak of daylight proved.
The Spaniard was broke in two, his forepart awash, the fore
castle settling deeper with every wave that smote it; but the
aftercastle thrust itself above the combers tops, and there was
one man standing beneath the stern-lanthorn, nigh the trap
through which the master of the mariners doth call down to
the seamen who sway the tiller. He stood very still, by which
the mariners amongst us determined he was tied to the Ian-
thorn's foot, as how else might he have survived the fearful
seas ?

278 GRC r

Howbeit, Sir Myles insisted again that he should put forth
to the wreck, and the same four fishermen offering to ferry
him, two of their brethren joined them, and M. Dawkins de
clared the venture would be the safer for a religious flavour,
to which Sir Myles consented the more readily for knowing
that M. Dawkins was conversant with the Spanish tongue
by reason of his yeeres in prison in the city of Mexico.

The fishermen's boat being launched, they rowed hardily
through the waves until they come beyond the inner bar,
when they steered around the flank of the Blind Pig and so
come to the wreck from seaward, the which in that wind
and sea was the more safe. And when we had come so far
we marvelled for that we might see fairly the person of him
who was lashed atop of the poop beneath the stern-lanthorn5
him seeming the most anciount person we had ever seen in
life: a mighty lean, tall, old man, with a long, white beard
that reached to his waist and was tucked in his belt that
the wind might not blow it into his face; and withal, very
proud in his face, having a high, beaked nose, and brown
eyes, bright and fierce. He was choice, too, in his garb and
armature, wearing a suit of half-armor, handsomely en-
scrolled and but a little rusted, and on his head a morion
chased with gold. He had Cordovan boots, laced to his
thighs, and in his hand a long, straight sword of a peculiar
grey steel, such a sword as the Spaniards are not wont to
carry, for it was thicker in the blade than a rapier, flat,
also, and two-edged.

As we rowed alongside, under the lee of the galleon, he
stared down upon us with a kind of high disdain, most
honourable to behold, and he made to fumble with his fin
gers at the ropes about his waist, as if he would cast him
loose; but he staggered somewhat in the doing of it, and
we could see the color drain from his face with the effort.
So I called up to him without more ado: Surrender, Senor.
A buena querra. Which is to say in English: at good quar
ters. He bowed very slightly, and answered in Castilian that
lisped a trifle: I am not of those who surrender, Senor Eng-

FOR TH£ QUCCNCS MAJCSTIC 279

lishman, while I have breath in me. I am a true Conquista
dor — and the most anciount of all.

Now, at the time the words meant little to me, and less,
maybe, to Sir Myles, who likewise hath some Spanish; but
we were vastly pleased with the old man's spirit, and I
hailed again, acquainting him of Sir Myles his style and office,
and that it was no disgrace to surrender to an officer of the
Queenes Majestic. To the which he replied no less haught
ily than before: Senors, I would not surrender to you, though
you were the Lord God, Himself, so that you were enemies
of Spain. And he added, in a savage voice, as he would
spread it broadcast: Aye, there is one Castilian of the Old
Breed left.

Here is a proper caballero, quoth Sir Myles. We must use
him gently, parson. And he, that is, Sir Myles, would not
suffer the fishermen to accompany us aboord the galleon, say
ing it was not fit that a gentleman of the Spaniard's quality
should be tooken in the presence of common men. So only
M. Dawkins accompanied Sir Myles to the poop, where the
said Spaniard awaited us most despitefully as to countenance,
leaning upon the ropes which bound him to the lanthorn's
foot, his sword naked in his hand, his aged body so weak
from exhaustion it was a sight to entice sympathy in an
enemies breast.

Senor, saith Sir Myles then, will it please you to make
yourself known to me, who am the Queenes Majesties Lieu
tenant for these coasts ? The old Spaniard stiffened himself
erect. I am not unknown in my own country and elsewhere,
Englishman, saith he. I am Don Martin Alonzo de Vira-
flores, an Hidalgo of Old Castile, Maestre de Campo of the
Terza of Arragon, a Commander of the Order of St. Jago.
Sir Myles and I bowed low before him. And may it please
you, Illustrious Senor, saith M. Dawkins, what is the name
of this ship and how come you aboord her ?

He made pretense to curl his mustache, albeit his fingers
trembled so he scarce twisted a thread of hair, and saith he:
She is the St. Jago de Compostella, a galleon of the squadron

280

of Castile in the Armada which hath been punished for the
craven conduct of men who did not deserve to be called
Spaniards. I sailed in her as Captain of the soldiers because
that she bore the name of my Order, and I thought she would
be lucky, which she was not. We bowed again most re
spectfully, and Sir Myles spoke up in ragged Spanish: Since
you are enemy to the Queenes Majestic, Don Martin, I must
ask you to render yourself to me, and in sooth, Senor, this
ship is no safe place. But Don Martin's face went white,
and he advanced his sword, and saith he: Senors, I am a true
Conquistador. It is not in me to surrender.

Nay, Senor but here is no dishonor, pleadeth Sir Myles.
We would but save you from drowning. What is death to
one as aged as I ? saith Don Martin bitterly. All I have
known are gone, and with those who supplant them I have
no sympathy. We of the Conquistadors were the last of
the true breed.

Of a sudden I took heed to his meaning, and cried out:
But, Senor, you are not of those iron men who won Mexico
and Peru for the Emperor Charles ? He bowed slightly in
his turn, and saith he proudly: Senors, I sailed with that
most glorious company of caballeros who followed the great
Cortes. But think, Senor, protests M. Dawkins, that was
seventy years gone by. And your Grace should know that
whilst M. Dawkins abode in prison in the city of Mexico
the word came hither of the death in the city of Guatemala
of one Bernal Diaz, who was of the captains under Cortes
and commonly accounted the last of the Conquistadors.

Don Martin frowned eaglewise upon us, and saith he: It
is not my custom to permit my word to be questioned. I
marched with the Marquis of the Valley as a stripling, and I
stand before you, Senors, in the eighty-ninth year the
Blessed Jesus hath been pleased to graunt me, and as stead
fast against all His enemies as I ever was. And this I will
prove upon your bodies if you do not abandon my deck.

The words were yet on his tongue when a giant wave
rolled down upon the galleon, and our fishermen in their

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boat beseeched us that we should come back to them speed
ily for that the galleon crumbled under the stress of the
sea. Ha, by St. George, quoth Sir Myles, we must have an
end to debate. Don Martin, come with us you shall, for I
owe it to my manhood that you should not drown, as I owe
it to my Queen that you become her prisoner. Never, Se-
nors, saith Don Martin. With the which Sir Myles steps
toward him, and when Don Martin lungeth feebly Sir Myles
putteth aside the stroke with his arm, cometh to handgrips
and taketh the sword from him. Here, Parson, saith Sir
Myles, make shift to handle this bodkin the while I unlash
the gentleman.

M. Dawkins was the more inclined to obey for the furore
of the curses emitted by Don Martin, which, even in the
Spanish, were parlous heereing for clerkly ears. There was
a stop to them only when the gallant anciount fainted from
the turmoil of his rage and the excess of his weariness and
hunger, for, as we did later learn, he had not eaten in the
space of two days and for a day had not moistened his lips.
We bundled him up in an old cloak and made shift to lower
him over the galleon's side to our fishermen, and when we
had rejoined them they thrust off from her and we rowed
back to land, more than a little grateful for our salvacioun,
the wind and waves arising again and the poor ship dissolv
ing under their cruel strokes as she were a chemic soluble.

When we reached the land there was a great todo, which
Sir Myles quieted, and he bade his serving-folk contrive a
litter of pikes, into which we laid Don Martin and carried him
kindly up to Friars Minton, Sir Myles his seat, wherein your
Grace's royal father was once moved to visit to the con
tinued joy and reverence of this parish, the which could
not fail to be mightily stimulated anew did your Grace but
deign to honor us by graunting the opportunity to demon
strate our overweening love and loyalty, as we do pray may
yet be graunted us. And beside the litter walked Sir Myles,
carrying Don Martin his sword, and M. Dawkins, bearing
a flask of aqua vitae for administering to the prisoner-invalid

282 QR€Y

did he reveal a disposicioun to consciousness. But what with
his age and exceeding weariness, and a flux of evil humours
deduced from the same, he remained in the stupour until
after we had fetched him withindoors and bedded him; and
to say truth, we deemed it likelie he would not awaken in
this life, for he was but a skeleton in the body and bore upon
him the scars of a ship's company for record of his diligaunce
in the warres.

Being assured that we had performed all things pos
sible for Don Martin his comfort, Sir Myles let summon a pair
of varlets to furbish his armour and accoutrement, and eke
haileth M. Dawkins to lift up the grey sword which stood
by the bedfoot, the which M. Dawkins undertaking he did
perceive the blade thereof to be scrawled and scratched with
divers inscriptions, yea, from the hilt to the point, and last-
ways in the broader part, two lines of English. Exclaiming
thereat, M. Dawkins bore the sword to the window, where,
by the sun's light he deciphered these lines in a crude, antique
script:

Grey Maide men haile Mee
Deathe does not faile Mee.

Above and belowe these was much other lettering in more
tongues than M. Dawkins had wit to read: namely, French,
Italian, Latin, Greek, Hebrew, and belike, Arabic, not to ac
count those that were but gibberish to his eyes. Of the
French lines, one ran somewhat in conformity with the Eng
lish doggerel above cited, to wit:

Li Demoyzel griz
Ma vengence ]e priz.

And likewise a motto in the Italian dialect of the North,
which, being roughly Englished, saith:

Grey Maids bright Jest
Giveth good Rest —
Death Sirs is Best.

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But I might quote your Grace a score more, rimes, boasts,
signatures, asserciouns of ownership, which must become te
dious in the recitacioun. Let this suffice, and it please you.
What was most singular in the whole was the manner in
which many men of several nations had bechristened the
sword the Grey Maiden, a name which could not be surpassed
for aptness and sufficiency, since there was that about the
dumb steel which did infallibly suggest the clean shapeliness
of a green lass. As Sir Myles did testify of his own will,
when M. Dawkins drew the sword to his notice, and he de
creed likewise that it should not be sent from the chamber,
since, above aught else, there was the question how it had
passed from an English hand to Don Martin.

Impatient though we was to unravel the skein of the
mystery, we must bide until the morning, for by God's bless
ing Don Martin was suffered to sleep so long, rousing a little
by times to accept a sup of aqua vitse and a moiety of broth,
but anon lapsing off into what was akin both to sleep and the
stupour of the phlegmatic ills. But for this I make certain
he might never have told us the tale of the sword, the which
is the excuse for this statement for your Graces eye, for it
was the strength he gained by the enforced rest which re
stored him to consciousness in the noon warmth of the new
day. And the first word he spake when we approached his
bedside was of the sword.

Sefiors, saith he, very stately, despite that he lay on his
back, with but a pillow to prop his head, you have not de
prived me in my weakness of that symbol of honour, with
out which a caballero must go bare of pride ?

If you mean your sword, Don Martin, saith Sir Myles, we
bore it for you because your illness overcame you.

Now, there come a tinge of colour into the old Spaniard's
cheeks, and saith he: I perceive that you are a gentleman of
excellent training, Senor. You will permit that I say this,
who am of an age to be your grandfather. It is not necessary
for me to remind you I did not yield my ship to you nor

284

my sword, but succumbed in my person to the forces of
nature.

Don Martin, saith Sir Myles, bowing very prettily, we car
ried you hither for the sake of your health, I trow, and for
the ship, she was demolished by the winds of God. But
touching the sword, which I have here, we do perceive it
to be enscribed in our English tongue, which would imply
it came from an English hand, and you being an enemy,
we must make inquiry on that score, to discover if perchaunce
some countryman of ours had his death by your endeavour
and in what circumstaunce it befell.

The anciount shook his head, smiling. Nay, Senor, quoth
he, it may be I have slain Englishmen in fair fight, but this
sword I had from him who was the heart's friend of my youth.
He had it of his mother, who was English and wedded an
Hidalgo of Arragon who visited your country in the affair
of the marriage of the Princess Catherine to the Prince of
Wales. My friend — he was Gonzalo de Almodovar, called
el Pulido, for his foppish ways; but a good soldier, oh, yes,
a valliant soldier — told me the sword came to him by reason
that all the men of his mother's house had perished in your
Warres of the Roses. It was hereditary in that house; a
knight of the name — let me think, Senors — would it be
Stourton of Ringham ? Aye, saith Sir Myles, there was a
family of that name in Kent. Don Martin nodded courte
ously. It must be as you say, Senor. Howbeit, a knight of
this name fought in Italy with the great condottiere, Hawk-
wood, and there won the sword for them. They prized it
highly; my friend parted with all else when poverty over
took him in Old Spain, but the sword he treasured as his
honour. He was used to say it was the oldest sword in the
world, that it had shed more blood than we in all our battles
in Mexico and that he who wielded it might not die by steel.
Nay, I know not if that be true, but he did not die by
steel, nor shall I, who received it from him in death.

Sir Myles laid the sword upon the coverlet, and Don
Martin's fingers folded eagerly around the worn grooves of

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the hilt. There, Senor, saith Sir Myles, do you win strength
from the feel of it. There is naught like a sword in the
hand to banish evil humours. But Don Martin smiled upon
us very mournful, yet withal as one who hath no foreboding.
Sefiors, saith he, I am a dying man as I lie here. The spark
of the soul flickers low; and indeed, I am ready to go, who
have outlived my time. For Spain is dying, even as I am.
He shuddered, and lay still a moment, and M. Dawkins took
thought to divert his mind, saying: You have hinted at a
brave story, Illustrious Senor. Would it please you to recite
for us such details as linger in your memory ? If it doth not
tire —

Don Martin broke in upon me, smiling again, this time
with a kind of pranksomeness, truly marvellous in one of his
yeeres. Tush, Sefiors, saith he, you would turn me from
the corridor that leads to death. It may not be. I am
past-due for my stint in Purgatory. Yet I take your efforts
in good part. You are noble enemies. Aye, you English are
such a race as we Spaniards were a century gone. Pray to
God that you will not burn out as have our people. His
face clouded, but presently he continued: I never thought to
see a Spanish Armada harried by a handful of Englishmen
like a xiquipil of Zapotecans being flailed by a score of lances.
Aye, that was how it looked, Senores. It was such a sea-
battle as we Conquistadors often fought on land when we
had to make head with hundreds against tens of thousands.
There was honour for you in it, but for Spain there was only
disgrace. And I am too good a Spaniard to wish to live in
disgrace. Let me die unbeaten, for I can still say that I,
Martin Alonzo de Vireflores, never lowered my colours or
tendered my sword to any foeman, Christian or heathen.

That can you, Don Martin, quoth Sir Myles. And M.
Dawkins, proffering a glass of aqua vitas, saith to him for di
version again: You lie here, sword in hand, Senor, Sir
Myles your squire of the body and I ready to be steward,
major domo or eke chaplain, and you can support the min-
istracions of a heretic. He laughed heartily thereat. Ha,

286

Englishman, saith he, you are a priest for the field, such a
one as Fra Olmedo, who went throught the warres with us.
Christ's Splendour, our priests have gone the way of the
laity — whiners and drivelers, fit for naught save the shriv
ing of Indian converts. Pah, I need none of them. I have
fought for the Lord God my life long, and if my soul is
spotted I will trust to His justice, rather than any shaveling's
mumbled prayers.

Now, at this both Sir Myles and M. Dawkins fell alaughing,
for 'twas mighty comical, and M. Dawkins saith to Don Mar
tin afresh: We be all three men who have adventured widely,
albeit I am but a clerk. Prithee, Senor, if it likes you, tell us
the story of your sword. Nay, that I can not do, answers
he, for I know not the whole of it. But Sir Myles exclaims
thereat: You know how it came to you, Don Martin. And
Don Martin nodded his head very slowly, as one who hath
a swift rush of memories. I do, saith he, I do.

For a spell we were all of us quiet, and the booming of
the waves on the shore came in the windows and the wailing
of the seabirds. So be it, saith he, of a sudden. I will tell
you, Senors. Being honourable men, it will please you. And
afterward — But we will speak of that later. Sit, I pray
you. And you, priest, keep your flask handy. I hear the
beating of death's wings, and I would finish what I under
take, so let me not pass until I am through.

This, then, your Grace, is his story, as told to Sir Myles
and M. Dawkins the whole of the afternoon, being the day
next following All Hallowes, as afore cited:

You must know, Senors, I was born a younger son of an
honourable Hidalgo, resident in the district of Segovia, in
Old Castile, whose estate was measureably curtailed by the
terminacion of the warres with the Moors under the auspices
of those glorious sovereignes, Ferdinand and Isabella. When
I had attained the age of eighteen yeeres, my militarie edu
cation being complete, my father called me to him, and
presenting me with a thousand crowns, notified me that must
be the sum of his charitie towards me. In common with

FOR rue Queems

most youths in my situation at that period, I took thought
to achieve my fortune in the Indies, and sailing from Palos
about the beginning of the yeere 1518, landed at St. Jago,
in Cuba, to find the Governor, Velasquez, and a distinguished
Hidalgo, Hernando Cortes, a settler in the Island and son
of a worthy family of Medellin in Estremadura, beating up
for recruits for an expedicioun to the land of Mexico, be
yond the great Gulph of that name, which was reputed to
be the seat of a mighty nation of Indians, who dwelt in
houses of stone and mined gold as we Spaniards mined iron.

It is not necessary for me to detail to you, Sefiors, the at
traction of such an enterprise for a youth in my circum-
staunces. Nor have I the breath to narrate to you the nu
merous details of our setting forth, of the earlier battles we
fought, of our march through hostile nations numbering mil
lions of savages and across stupendous mountains, traversing
the extremes of heat and cold, to the splendid capital of the
Emperor Montezuma, as kindly and wise a monarch, if his
supersticiouns be put aside, as any that ever lived. This
city, which we Spaniards now call Mexico, but which the
Aztecs denominated Tenochtitlan, was of a bigness greater
than Venice and situate in much the same manner, amidst
the waters of a lake in a pleasant vale surrounded by moun
tains, capped with snow, as fair a site as the Lord God ever
established for a peoples pride and wellbeing. And it was
ornamented with innumerable palaces, and spacious and lofty
temples, wherein were celebrated the bloody rites of those
false gods the Blessed Jesus sent us to destroy.

For look you, Englishmen, it is not to be argued that we
Conquistadors had the assistance of the Lord God, and His
Son, our Lord Jesus, not to speak of the Blessed Virgin, the
Intercessor, for valliant though we were, and tireless, not
otherwise might we have wrought such deeds, who came
ashore in this strange land but six hundred souls, counting
the mariners who entered our ranks after we destroyed the
fleet. Six hundred in all, and few of us armed in steel. For
myself, I know, I was glad of a casque to my head; my body

288

was protected by a quilted cotton coat; and for arms I had
sword and shield. And most were in like case. Sixteen
possessed horse and lance; thirteen had musquets, thirty-two
crossbows. Of the remainder less than half carried pikes.
Our artillery was ten brass guns and four falconets. And
this was the force that marched into Mexico, took captive the
Emperor Montezuma, held his capital in subjekcion, and
wrung from the Aztecs in this very dawn and prelude of
the Conquest treasures amounting to upwards of a million
crowns in gold and precious jewels.

All this had we achieved, with the death of many of our
comrades, in battle and by sickness, when word came from
the coasts that the Governor Velasquez had been stirred by
jealousy to dispatch from Cuba a second, and far mightier
armament, under one Pamphilio Narvaez, of whom no more
need be said than what the Italian Dante wrote of Ugolino in
Hell, that we will pass him in silence and afar-off. Narvaez
landed at our port of St. Juan de Ulua, with 1400 men, in
cluding no less than eighty cavalry and one hundred and sixty
musqueteers and crossbowmen. They had twenty cannon,
and more armoured soldiers than our entire company. Nar
vaez announced to all, Spaniards and Indians, that he was
come to supplant Cortes, and declared war upon us, with
fire, sword and free rope, aye, as though we were infidel
Moors.

But we of the first Conquistadors were not men to be
frightened like children by tales told in the dark. Cortes
gave Pedro de Alvarado eighty-three men, with four cannon,
to hold our quarters in Tenochtitlan, guard Montezuma and
keep the city in awe, and with the remainder, two hundred
and six in all, he marched out to baffle Narvaez. It is better
to die at once than to die dishonoured, Senors, saith he, and
we agreed with him. So we marched back over the moun
tains, with the beard always upon the shoulder, as the saying
is, for we never knew when we might be attacked. But by
God's grace we came unharmed to the coast, and were joined
by Don Gonzalo de Sandoval, with seventy men of ours who

FOR rue Queems

had sufficed to keep the Indians of this vicinitie in subjekcion,
so that now we numbered two hundred and seventy-six.

From Sandoval we learned that Narvaez had taken up his
quarters in the town of Cempoal, and thither we marched, as
secretly as we might contrive. I remember, Senors, the night
was dark and rainy, such rain as is only to be encountered
in those low coastlands, where the heat is as fierce as in
Algiers. We had intelligaunce of our spies how that Nar
vaez was lodged in the quadrangle of the temple, his guns
arrayed in a line along the temple's front; and Cortes set
aside my company, under an active lad named Pizarro, a
bastard cousin of his, as I have heard tell, who was then
as little known as Peru, to seize upon these guns at the first
rush. So we stepped off into the rain, each holding to the
belt of the man before him, for we could not see one an
other. Our countersign was Spiritu Santo, Spiritu Santo.
That of Narvaez was Santa Maria, Santa Maria, which we
knew from our aforesaid spies.

Our company was in the lead, and as we came through the
street to the temple we heard the alarm being shouted.
Pizarro bade us charge lances, and our drummer beat up, and
we advanced so swiftly that the artillerymen could put the
matches to but four of their guns, which slew three of us; the
rest we seized and turned about to bear upon the temple,
but we dared not fire them, lest we harm our own people.
And Pizarro bade us march on to aid Sandoval's company,
who were fighting to climb the steps of the Teocali, or pyra
mid, whereon were the altars at a great height above the
ground, and where, likewise, Narvaez had his position.

This was as blind a struggle as ever I was in, betwixt the
darkness, the rain and the confusion of the two parties.
Sandoval had just been forced down the temple steps when
we reached him, and now he charged a second time, swords
rattling and pikes thrusting, our people shouting Spiritu
Santo, Spiritu Santo, Victory for Cortes, the while our ene
mies cried Santa Maria for Narvaez, Santa Maria for Narvaez.
It seemed that we might not make head against the weight

of numbers opposed to us, but in the midst of the combat
Narvaez screamed out, in agony: Santa Maria assist me.
They have killed me. They have struck out my eye.

Senors, I am not one to boast; but I was neere by him in
our front rank, and so soon as I heard him, I shouted in my
turn: Victory for the Spiritu Santo. Narvaez is dead. Vic
tory for Cortes. And at once the pressure of the foe weak
ened; they commenced to yield to us, and we pressed them
upward, step by step, until we had attained the summit of
the Teocali, where they sought refuge in the house of stone,
which had been the adoratory of the idols. Here, again, they
were in the stronger position, for the doors and windows were
easily defensible, and it was difficult in the rain to distinguish
comrade from foe. But we pressed our attack vigourously,
and in the maindoor I crossed swords with him who was to
be my friend.

We fought blind, as I have said, but I knew my antago
nist for a master swordsman. His blade was uncanny in its
percepcioun of my purpose. It was as if it had human
eyes that pierced the blustery darkness. However I cut or
thrust, it was ready for me, aye, more than ready. I slashed
for my foeman's head in an unguarded moment, and his
blade slipped under mine and ran me through the shoulder.
I fell forward, and as I did so, one Martin Lopez, a shipman,
who was of our party, and a very sturdy fellow, withal,
climbed upon the roof of the building and set the thatch afire.
The which inspired the people of Narvaez with a gross fear, so
that they began to cast down their arms and cry for quarter;
and our people, being able to see their way, ran in at them
with a boldness which did the rest.

For myself, I got to my feet, sword in hand, and made a
pass at the youth opposite me; but he laughed in my face,
saying: Nay, Senor, you are in no case to push this bicker,
if you would, and for that matter neither am I, seeing my
friends are yielding themselves and Senor Narvaez is become
a cock without spurs. Senor, saith I, then, tottering on my
feet, for I was nigh as weary as I am lying here in death's

FOR <TH€ QU££N£S JttAjeSTie 291

presaunce, one of two things you must do: fight on or sur
render to me. With that he carefully wiped his sword on a
body at his feet, sheathed it and bowed most courteouslie.
Why, Senor, saith he, I will even surrender. I leaned against
the wall, heedless of what went on around me. You are my
prisoner, I told him. Give me your sword. But he slapped
his hand on its hilt, and answered quickly: Nay, nay, Senor,
that I may not do. This sword is my honour. I yield it not
while I have life. If you insist I will fight on, but by your
leave with other foemen, seeing that you are wounded and
unsteady.

Now, a rage possessed me, and I flourished my sword, and
cried to him: It must be that you fear me. He flushed
and named himself very quietly, and his parentage, and when
he had done this, he added: And if, when you have recovered,
Senor, you are still of a mind to question my courage I will
fight you, but I must warn you that the man doth not live
who may resist this sword with steel. For there is a prop
erty abiding in it, by virtue of which it can not be overcome
by kindred metal.

I looked at him as well as I might, for the growing dim
ness of my sight, and saw him to be of about my own age, a
dark stripling, with cool grey eyes, he had them from his
English mother, I suppose; they were of the same hue as his
sword, Seriors, save that at times they warmed with affec
tion. What I would have said to him, then, I do not know;
but as we stood in the door Cortes brushed by us, the sweat
streaming down his face, his armour streaked with mud, his
sword bloody in his hand. And he called out in a high, thin
voice, as of one fatigued: What is become of Narvaez ? How
is Narvaez ? To which Sandoval answered from the tem
ple's interior: Here he is, very safe. And Narvaez, himself,
groaned from a corner: Prithee, Senor Cortes, in God's name,
send me my surgeon, Master Juan, for my eye is beaten out.

Cortes stared at the corner in some surprise, for despite
the flames from the dampened thatch the light was none too
bright; and saith he presently: It shall be done. And added

curtly: Son Sandoval, keep good watch upon him and his
captains. This hath been a sore night's work. No man
can know what I have gone through. And he turned with
out more ado to pass out, but in the door he saw me, and
paused a moment, for — and I say it without vanity, Sefiors
— he had an affection for me, asking: What is this, Son
Martin, (So he called all of us young lads, whatever our
rank) are you wounded ? I made endeavour to salute him,
and would have fallen as I stood, but that my enemy caught
me in his arms. He is wounded by my hand, Serior Cortes,
saith Gonzalo. But I will make amends for that when next
you lead us to battle. Cortes regarded the two of us, pull
ing at his beard, and quoth he: By my conscience (that was
his one oath), if I can bring all of Narvaez his people to
your mind, Serior, I will not despair of the future. Gonzalo
bowed, and saith he: Most men would rather follow the lion
than the jennet. Now, the groans of Narvaez, in his corner,
were not unlike the braying of an ass, so a snicker arose from
those who had been lately our enemies, and several cried out
in approval of Gonzalo's speech. Cortes bowed to them
shortly. He who is loyal to me I am loyal to, he answereth,
and strode off to terminate the fighting in the inner courts.

That was the last of Narvaez. Him we imprisoned at
Villa Rica, on the seacoast, and all his men we took into our
army, so that Cortes had now such an armament we deemed
ourselves competent to complete the conquest we had be
gun. Alas, Sefiors, how little doth a man comprehend of
God's inscrutable purpose. It is well said that he who rides
high falls far.

But I am diverting from my tale, the which I have but
scant time to conclude for you. For I am no longer as I
was in those days, able to be up and about the day after a
sword had gone through my shoulder. Ha, what cared we
for wounds, we Conquistadors ? We counted him lucky
who had no more than one in a single combat. But I will not
seem to lack gratitude, so I must demolish my hardihood to
the extent of admitting Gonzalo would not suffer me to un-

FOR THf Queems jtfAjesne 293

dertake any endeavour which he might perform. Why do
you serve me ? I asked him, mighty annoyed after two days
of his ministracions. You are no page, and I have marched
my six leagues a day and fought a pitched battle, with a hole
as big as this prick in me. He smiled in a light, whimiscal
way, which was all his own. To say truth, Martin, quoth
he, I have a kindness for you.

It was the first time he called me by name, the first time
we spoke to each other, save as Sefior. Ah, me. The ache in
my heart. I remember I blushed like a nun. Sefior, saith I,
and then, thinking better of it, Gonzalo, there were certain
words betwixt us the night — Put them from your mind,
saith he. It is not for friends to poke steel into one another.
What could I say ? I swaggered a little, hinted my sword
boasted no magic qualities, yet had let its share of blood. He
smiled, and would not take offence. So I yielded to him,
putting aside the false pride that bade me resent the wound
he had dealt me. Many is the time I have been glad for that
since.

Ah, those days, Senors. All too short. But while they
lasted we dreamed brave dreams. We should win promotion
together. We would take our shares of the gold and buy
horses and harness. Cortes should be impressed by our
valour, and assign us to conquer a kingdom for ourselves, and
there we should rule as twin sovereigns, until we were rested
for fresh conquests. Ay de mi, Senors, there is nothing like
youth. Nothing like the first glory of youth, nothing like
the first friendship of youth.

Everyone in Cempoal had his dreams, for the matter of
that, from Cortes down to the pages. We made no doubt
the land was as good as ours. But it is rightly said that the
wheel of fortune maketh sudden turns, evil following closely
upon good. We were still licking our wounds when a mes
sage came from Alvarado, in Tenochtitlan, notifying Cortes
how the Indians had risen in insurreckcioun and besieged him
in his quarters. Sad news for us, Senors. But Cortes was
not one to temporize with fate. Allowing for the coast

294

garrisons, he mustered thirteen hundred men, one hundred of
them cavalry and one hundred and sixty musqueteers and
crossbowmen, and so we returned to Mexico, who had quit it
two hundred and six, reckoning the fifer and drummer.

In Tlascala we recruited a complement of 2,000 native
auxiliaries, and then pushed on by forced marches, and on
the day of San Juan in June of 1520 re-entered Tenochtitlan.
They who had come with Narvaez were all agog over the
beauty and stateliness of the city, but we veterans had eyes
only for the sullen looks of the Indians. It was plain to us
their earlier respect was become hatred, and we were not
surprised that the insurreckcioun broke forth again, more
virulent and bitter than before. Blessed Saints, Englishmen,
was there ever such fighting ? I heard men say, who had
fought in the Low Countries, in Italy and with the Turks,
that they had never seen the like.

In the commencement of the struggle we sallied out each
day, and fought in the streets; but it did not seem to matter
how many thousands we slew, and wherever we moved we
were covered by sheets of arrows, lances, and stones. We
fought our way one day to the Great Temple on the square
they called the Taltelulco; we slashed through the hordes that
filled the courts and swarmed over the Teocali, and burned
the shrine and overturned certain of their idols. But to
what purpose ? It was all we could do to hew a path back to
our quarters. Cortes swore it was not worth the price. He
made Montezuma mount our battlements, and cry to his
people to let us leave the city in peace, and they slew their
Emperor for our friend.

By the Mass, Senors, if we were not afraid, yet we under
stood that this was no place for us. For we were short of
provisions and water, our gun powder was exhausted, and
we were ringed about in the heart of this hostile city, where
almost every house was a fortress, and a web of canals shut
off one quarter from another. Moreover, the only escape
from the city to the mainland was over one of three cause
ways, each of which was broken at three or four intervals by

FOR rue QUCCNCS jxiAjesrie 295

bridges, and we knew that these bridges had been removed.
Surely, never men were in more evil case than we.

But Cortes had a remedy for every ill. He directed our
shipwrights to construct a portable bridge, and he issued
orders to the captains to have all the men ready to march at
midnight of the next night. For as I have said he was not
one to lose time. But when the news reached the soldiers
they raised a clamour for the treasure we had acquired, which
was in Cortes his keeping; and he, nothing loath, had it
fetched into the great saloon of the palace which was our
quarters — did I say that it had been the palace of Monte-
zuma his father ? — and there he bade, first, the King's fifth
be set aside, after which he told the soldiers they might help
themselves as they chose.

Ah, Sefiors, that treasure was the death of scores of our
comrades, notably of those foolish fellows who had come with
Narvaez, and who could think of nothing but the joy of
possessing gold in bars. They loaded themselves down with
the precious metal, where we veterans, who had some con-
cepcioun of the night which was confronting us, either
dipped sparingly into the heap or else took naught. I remem
ber, Gonzalo came to me in the courtyard, where I sat mend
ing the arrow-slits in my cotton coat, and saith he, very
gayly: Come, Martin, and let us take that gold which will
buy us the horses and harness we require. Nay, nay, amigo,
I told him, that gold will be a weight upon your back, when
the Indians are chopping at us with their two-handed swords.
We will buy one of the Tlascalans to carry it, saith he. Not
even that, quoth I. Cortes hath decreed that eighty of them,
and the lame horses, shall be reserved to carry the King's
fifth. Every other Indian and horse must bear his share of
the fighting.

So Gonzalo was guided by me, and contented himself with
a handful of calchihuas. I am glad that it was so. Other
wise — But I go too fast. What is the proverb? A lame
goat takes no siesta.

A little before midnight all the preparations had been com-

296 (JRCY

pleted. Martin Lopez and his shipmen had built a bridge of
stout timber, which was carried by four hundred of the
Tlascalans; one hundred and fifty of our soldiers were de
tailed to guard it. Sandoval and a group of caballeros, with
one hundred infantry, were the advance guard; Alvarado
commanded the rear guard of one hundred and fifty, all
picked men — and do not accuse me of vain-glory, Sefiors,
when I say that Gonzalo and I were amongst them. Be
twixt these two bodies was a long line of artillery, baggage,
Tlascalan auxiliaries, prisoners, and foot-soldiers. Most of
the cavalry rode with Cortes, who held himself in readiness
to act as a reserve, lending his aid wherever it was required.

How silent was the great city as we mustered in the court
yard. We had difficulty in believing that at sunset the air
had rung with shouts and whistles and the blasts of horns,
that the sky had been clouded by the deluge of missiles hurled
upon us. Now, it was as if we were alone in a wilderness.
Not a cry nor a curse from the multitudes of our enemies.
And to our considerable satisfaction, as we were about to
open the gates, a gentle rain commenced to fall, obscuring
the light of the stars and covering the city with a mist, which
rendered the darkness denser than it had been the night of
the attack upon Narvaez in Cempoal. Gonzalo reminded
me of this, as we finally received the word for the rearguard
to march. It is Cempoal over again, saith he, and no less
Cortes his night. And so it seemed. We stole out the
gate, and traversed a street littered with the corpses of that
day's assaults. We turned into another street; we followed
the embankment of a canal; almost we might see the ap
proach to the causeway ahead of us. A messenger from
Cortes rode up to acquaint Alvarado that Sandoval, the bag
gage, the King's treasure, the artillery and a portion of the
infantry had passed the first breach in the causeway; we
were bidden to stand fast, until the bridge was ready to be
taken up.

What said I ? quoth Gonzalo. I opened my mouth to
answer him, and an Indian howled the alarm in the canal by

FOR rne QUCCNCS JMAjesrie 297

which we stood. Senors, before a man might straighten his
helmet the night became hideous with noises. Horns blew,
men shouted and whistled, and of a sudden, from the Teocali
of the Great Temple came the boom of the monster drum of
serpents' skins, which the priests were used to beat to an
nounce their sacrifices. Never heard I aught like this drum;
the sound of it carried two leagues, and it was so doleful, so
threatening, so loud, that we shivered only to hear it. The
bravest man could not help asking of himself: Ha, will it be
beating soon for me ?

The column surged forward by instinct, men treading
fast on one anothers heels. Lights flared up in the rain; we
had glimpses of savage faces, stones clanged on our morions,
arrows and lances whistled through the ranks. A man sank
wounded, sobbing a plea not to be left to have his heart torn
out on the altar of their War God ; we lifted him, and ran on
for the bridge, jostling and tripping, in danger from our own
weapons in the press. Faster, men called. Make way, com
rades, let us get forward.

We were so close that we could see the blank space by the
bridge where the buildings came to an end, and as a gust of
rain blew over the lake we heard a brisk racket of hoofs, the
squeal of a frightened horse. Shouts and cries drifted back
to us. Men called warnings against the horses. Men who
were trampled under the hoofs screamed with pain. And
there was a crash like the breaking of a ship's mast. Senors,
we knew what it meant. We knew without being told.
The bridge had broken under the stress of the horses' pas
sage. But no man was willing to stop for that, and the pres
sure continued from the rear of the column, until Alvarado
and a few of us forced a halt by useing cold steel on several
of Narvaez his men.

Slow, lads, slow, shouted Alvarado. You drive your com
rades into the water. Give them time. Face out, face rear.
Here come the heathen devils. Ready, pikemen. Slow.

Ah, there was a gallant caballero, Englishmen. He and
his cavalry charged back along the way we had come to

29 8 QKer

scatter the first attack, and that gave us time to array the in
fantry in order. The Indians were coming on us from every
side, from the houseroofs, from the streets, from the canals,
from the lake. We dared not think of what was happen
ing ahead. The screams, the moans, the clattering of steel,
the thud of bodies falling, splashes in the water, horses crying
almost like men. Afterward we saw for ourselves: a new
bridge was being built, a bridge of dead men and horses, of
cannon, of baggage packs and chests.

Some of us passed that bridge, but not many. The Indians
struck us like tidal waves of human flesh. They rolled out
of the mist in a flood that never diminished, and they cared
naught for their own lives, if they might snatch a Spaniard
alive for their altars. We slew, and slew. Our arms ached
from slaying, our sword-hilts were slippery with blood.
Gonzalo made himself captain over thirty or forty of us who
fought in a group, and he was always in front to meet every
rush. Use the point, lads, saith he. Stab through, and
recover. Always the point. Shields up for Spain.

But it was all to no avail. Alvarado and his cavaliers had
their horses slain under them, one by one. One by one, our
company was reduced, as we retired, a step at a time, toward
the gap in the causeway where the bridge had fallen. And
Seriors, the worst of our plight was that we knew retirement
gained us no respite, for up ahead the column was beset no
less viciously than were we of the rear-guard. All the way
across the lake, the length of the causeway, we could hear the
trumpets and whistles of the Indians, as their Princes rallied
them to the attack. And if we passed this first bridgeless
gap, how should we pass the next two ?

Some men cried it was useless to fight, and leaped into the
water or went mad, and ran amongst the enemy to wreak
what harm they might. Alas, poor lads, most of them felt
the yoke of the sacrificial-stone on their necks before the
week was out. But all of the veterans, and the greater por
tion of Narvaez his men, fought like honourable caballeros,
defiant of odds, refusing to despair. After a while, too,

FOR TH€ QU€€N£S JMAJCSTie 299

Alvarado and a few of his horsemen joined us, and their long
lances and half-armour were a vast help.

But not Alvarado, himself, wrought braver deeds that night
than my Gonzalo. Ho, Senors, the blood quickens in me as
I think of him, his glance so cool, so watchful; his shield
poised at an angle to catch the blows of the Indians' two-
handed swords, edged with keen obsidian that bit like steel;
his grey blade flickering before him, tireless, unfailing. It
was he who held us together, when all about we heard the
groans of the dying, and men crying upon the Holy Virgin
and San Jago as they were drowned or trampled upon or
carried off in the Indians' canoes to the sacrifice.

It was he bade us make haste slowly. Why hasten ? saith
he. He who runs may stumble. My sword is betwixt you
and the savages, lads. She is thirsty, is my Grey Maiden.
Give her chance to drink. And when Alvarado threw him
self into our ranks, his horse having been killed, Gonzalo
cried to us: See, the captain prefers walking to riding. And
this, Senors, with the Indians clutching at him as he talked.
Don Pedro, Alvarado, laughed, saying: Not many fight as
well as they jest; but if I had this to do again the lad should
be on my righthand.

Thanks to him, thanks to my Gonzalo, I say, eighty of us
reached the bridge of the dead, a mound that writhed and
wriggled the breadth of the canal, a man's height beneath the
level of the causeway. We wondered how we should cross
it. The Indians' canoes were crowded against it, bow to
bow; they were running back and forth upon it, howling
and dancing; and our people on the opposite brink were more
intent upon fleeing than waiting to help us pass over.

Alvarado cast a swift glance about him. Down, all of
you, saith he, save Viraflores and el Pulido. Sweep the pas
sage clean, and climb the other side. And this time, haste.

They obeyed him with a right goodwill, for sooth to say,
no man had thought ever to win this far. As for us three,
who bided where we stood, we had no leasure for refleckcioun.
We must cover a causeway eight ells wide, and that was one

3oo

time I was glad I had no steel to my back. Gonzalo and I
fought with the sword; Alvarado used his lance, thrusting
with the point, reversing betimes to batter at his foes with
the butt, and it becomes me to say that albeit he wore half-
armour he was as lively as we two. A lusty captain, Don
Pedro. God rest his soul.

In the midst of our play come a shout from our com
rades, notifying us they were across, and Alvarado jerked
an order from the corner of his mouth: Leap for it, you two.
But Gonzalo shook his head. Nay, Captain, there are three
of us, saith he. Leap, young fool, snarled Alvarado. I come
after you. Gonzalo laughed. So be it, Martin, saith he, if
it was not for the acolytes, the Bishop would have a poor
train.

We turned together, and sprang down on the quaking mass
that bridged the canal. Our comrades had swept it clean,
but they were encompassed by fresh hordes of savages upon
the far brink of the causeway, and seizing advantage of their
predicament, canoes came paddling in from either side to
cut us off, torches ruddying the night. We had gained the
abutment of the causeway, which was as high as I could reach
with my fingers, when a clamour of surprise burst from the
Indians; and we looked back to see Alvarado running toward
the brink of the canal, as if he would leap down to us, but
instead, he dropped the point of his lance to the bridge and
vaulted up and out, soaring high over our heads to alight
easily on the causeway above us. That is what men called
the Leap of Alvarado, and to this day, Senors, the bridge
over that canal is named the Bridge of the Leap of Alvarado.

But we who witnessed the deed took no thought of fame.
Alvarado drew the lance to him, propping it against the abut
ment, and cried that we should climb it. Gonzalo gave me
a push. Up with you, Martin, saith he. Nay, you first,
amigo, I denied. Alvarado cursed us both. Here is no oc
casion for punctilios, quoth he. Climb, or I leave you.

But Gonzalo turned his back upon us, flourishing his
sword at the Indians who were jumping from the causeway

FOR TH€ QUCCNCS ^fAJCSTIC 301

we had quitted. Martin, you have a green wound in your
shield-shoulder, saith he. What would you have done,
Sefiors ? I climbed the lance. If I waited longer to argue
it seemed that we must be trapped. Up, Gonzalo, I cried.
And Alvarado added his command. I am with you, Sefiors,
said Gonzalo, very debonair. And he made a little charge
at the savages, then spun on his heel and ran toward us. In
his path was the snout of a cannon that projected above the
wreckage; he leaped from it, sword in hand, and landed be
side us, scarce out of breath.

Two ways of skipping a gutter, Don Pedro, saith he.
Alvarado swore at him, and tossed a gold chain, what we
called a fanfarona, around his neck. No more of that,
springald, bade the Captain. This is not fun. Nay, it be
gets wealth, saith my Gonzalo, grinning.

We set off, without more ado, to rejoin the body of our
people, who had gone on a matter of a ship's length; but of
a sudden there was a din of horns, and hundreds of Indians
rose out of canoes to right and left, their missiles as thick
as the rain which smote us with the full force of the wind off
the lake. We made attempt to run, but the savages gained
the causeway before we could catch up our comrades, and we
must slow to a walk, stabbing and thrusting desperately for
dear life, Alvarado in front, Gonzalo and I guarding the
rear, the red demons so close about us that we could smell
them and the blood of their wounds spurted in our faces.

Help, comrades, shouted Alvarado. Will you let us perish,
who held the bridge for you ? The rearguard steadied, and
men cried to us to bide their coming. But it was one thing
to promise help, and another task to deliver it. Alvarado
was known to many of the Indians, Tonatio they named him
because of his handsomeness, and they kept shouting to one
another: Let us take Tonatio, brothers. Here is Tonatio for
the catching.

So they fought with a determinacion even beyond their
wont, streaming in betwixt us and our relief. Yet, despite
their effort, they might not resist the good swords of our

302

comrades, and presently the clang of steel was in our ears,
and hearty Spanish oaths and the stamping of booted feet.
We deemed ourselves all but saved, but to the Indians this
was a summons to a final endeavour, and they hurled them
selves upon us, heedless how they died, aye, Senors, clutching
at our swords that they might hinder us the while others
strove with clubs to stun us. It was thus they brought me
down, a man rushing upon my sword, taking the blade in his
belly to the hilt, and one behind him beating at my shield, so
that I lost my footing and fell prone.

Santa Maria, I sweat to remember it. They were dragging
me away when Gonzalo came to my rescue, slashing and
thrusting himself a path with all the cunning that lies in this
blade beside me. You smile, perhaps, Senors, you think an
old man wanders in his mind. Ah, you should see Grey
Maiden in action. Never was there such a sword. Set me
upon my feet, now, my back to a wall, the sword in my hand,
and I will meet any six men you send against me, aye, old as
I am, dying withal.

But this is not my story. Nay, nay, not my story —
Gonzalo's. There we were, the savages ringing us, I on the
ground, Gonzalo hacking a space to permit me to rise. Be
hind him Alvarado had joined the rearguard, and was leading
them on to free us. But too slowly, alas, too slowly. He
could only achieve so much, my Gonzalo. I staggered up to
help him as a two-handed blade of obsidian flakes crashed
under his raised sword-arm into his unguarded side.

He looked surprised in the flaring torchlight, peered down
a moment at the red tide that gushed from the hole in his
cotton jack-coat and handed Grey Maiden to me. She is
yours, Martin, saith he. God aid you to your kingdom.
And in a breath he was lying on the causeway where I had
lain, and I was standing over him as he had stood over me,
a sword flashing in each hand — for I cast away my shield
to accept Grey Maiden.

I remember Alvarado shouting in my ear, plucking at my
arm. I remember a press of friendly bodies about me, Span-

FOR rne QueeNes JttAjesne 303

ish voices argueing, urging me. They must have persuaded
or compelled me away, for next I have a dim recolleckcioun
of interminable fighting along the causeway, hurried flights,
brief stands, charges which left us with constantly diminished
ranks. There were Indians in front of us and behind us, and
Indians scrambling out of canoes on either flank. I know the
men on each side of me were snatched for the sacrifice as we
passed the second gap in the causeway over another mound of
dead men and animals and discarded artillery. Why I was
not taken I do not know, Seriors. I did not care. Life
meant nothing to me. Mayhap it was the sword. For
Alvarado told Cortes that but for me he might never have
gone farther than the second canal. The lad fought like
an angel, saith he, his sword was everywhere.

I do not remember the passage of the third canal at all,
but men say that here again there was a heap of corpses and
baggage to scramble across. The first thing I do remember
is the light of a murky dawn under the walls of Tacuba at
the causeway's end, and a little knot of horsemen, with
Cortes at their head, coming to meet us. Sandoval was
there, and De Oli, and Salcedo, and Lares, and De Morla, a
few more. Sandoval's arms were red to the elbow, and the
tears fell from Cortes his eyes.

Is this all of you, Son Pedro ? saith he. I looked around
stupidly when he spoke, and I saw that we who were with
Alvarado were but seven, and eight of the Tlascalans, and
all of us wounded sorely.

We are all who are left, Don Hernando, saith Alvarado
sadly. There is not a Christian soul alive upon the cause
way.

Ah, Blessed Jesus, what a sad night, cried Cortes. There
are not five hundred of us, nor a thousand of the Tlascalans.
We lack powder for the musquets and arrows for the cross
bows. I know not what to do.

Perhaps I was mad, Senors, and whether or no, it was not
like me to be forward, for I was a quiet-spoken lad; but I
shoved myself to the front and waved the sword Grey Maiden

in our captain's face. We have our swords, quoth I. My
Gonzalo gave me this blade, dying that I might not be tooken
for the sacrifice. Shall we betray such as he by weeping be
cause the Lord God hath chastised us for our sins ? And
thereat Cortes smote his thigh so the cuisses rang, and saith
he: Son Martin, Son Martin, I am well rebuked. The women
in Castile have bred soldiers before this, and they will con
tinue to breed soldiers for the King, though all of us perish on
the altars of these heathen gods. If it be God's will, we
shall return to bridle this wicked race.

All the others applauded him. We have achieved so much
we must conquer, saith Alvarado. And Sandoval saith: Aye,
so it shall be, Senors. But now let us march for Tlascala,
and tend our wounds, and abide the coming of more com
panions from Cuba. Cortes said this should be done, and
when we had rested somewhat and made arrows for the cross
bows, we set forth again. But of what followed, and of how
on the third day we did battle with all the hosts of Mexico and
Tezcuco and Saltocan, hosts that covered the plains and the
hills until the eye wearied with watching them, of all this, I
say, and of our return to Mexico in December, and of the
deeds we wrought then, I may not speak, Englishmen, for my
strength ebbs with every breath.

I have told you how the sword came to me. More I can
not tell, save that it hath carved me whatever of fortune I
won in a long life. In Mexico all the Conquistadors knew
it as if it was one of themselves; they talked of it, and its
properties, as they did of the brave horses with which our
caballeros rode down the heathen ranks. It is more than
cold steel, this blade, Sefiors. Aye, there is life in it, if not
a soul. I think sometimes the spirits of all the valliant men
who used it in their seasons have entered into the fabrick of
its metal, tautening it, hardening it, teaching it the craft and
wiliness of battle. Cortes called it the Sword of the Con
quest; he and a certain priest would have hung it over the
altar of the Cathedral we built in Mexico where the Great
Temple had stood on the Taltelulco. I was Master of the

FOR rue QUCCNCS JMAjesrie 30$

Horse to him in those days, the days of his greatness, when
he was Marquis of the Valley, an uncrowned King. But I
would not yield the sword to him and the priests.

Nay, nay, I told them, this is no trophy to hang in a
church. She hath more work to do, hath my Grey Maiden.
Let her follow her bent. There will be brave men after we
are gone. What did you say, Don Hernando, that morn
after the Sad Night when all seemed lost ? He pulled at
his beard, which was thin and grey, and saith he: Son Martin,
you have me in the armpit. The women of Castile have
bred soldiers in the past, and shall again. And later, after
we had returned to Old Spain, we sailed to Algiers with the
Kings Majestic, and being wrecked, lost all but what we
stood in, yet my sword was unharmed; and Cortes spoke of
this to many people as being singular and strange. By my
conscience, Senors, saith he, this sword serves a purpose.

So it doth, Englishmen. But alas, no more for Spain. For
the women in Castile no longer breed the same stock. We
Spaniards have had our share of glory. Now other nations
shall flourish their little while, as the Lord God directs. You
English are heretics, and why He favours you I do not know;
but one who has lived as I have for hard on ninety years
learns that there is much in life not to be understood. So
take the sword when I am sped, Senor Conyers, remembering
Grey Maiden is worthy of all honour. She is no camp wench,
but a virgin of battle, exceeding proud and undefiled. Aye,
and her kiss is death.

MAY it please your Grace, Don Martin being so far forward
in his tale, did grow visibly weak, and M. Dawkins, proffer
ing him a swallow of aqua vita:, he gulped a trifle of the
licquor, strove mightily for speech, crying upon Christ His
succour, and so died very hearteningly, about sunset. Sir
Myles let bury him in a corner of the park, where the old
friars of this house were wont to lay their dead, and for that
he was a gentleman of a sweet courtesie and noble demeanour,
albeit Spaniard and Papist, he was put in the grave decentlie

306

clad, and his armour on, the gentry of these parts attending
for mourners. The bodies of his crew were laid in a com
mon grave at his foot.

MYLES CONYERS, Kt.

HUMPHREY DAWKINS, B.A.

Richmond, 2 is/ *Dec. 1588

For my £ord ISurgMey:

Let you look deep into this. *An arrant, waggle-
tongued knave. What hideth he ? Conyers may keep
this sword, but perchaunce there be treasure in the
wreck, and of that I would have accompt in full.

Elizabeth ^

TIB 17A-5m-7,'64
(E7042slO)4188B