God Wills It! Part 67

"Be confident, dear friends and lords; deeper yet was the lance when I saw it. Do not distrust the saint!"

They toiled still longer, until by noting the shortening of the candles on the altar they knew that noon was long past, and the day was speeding. None dared utter his doubts. But at last Count Raymond declared that he could stay no more; it was his turn to go and command the fort before the Gate of St. George. Richard could see the anguish on the face of the great lord of the South.

"What shall I say to the people who are waiting without the church?"

demanded he of Peter Barthelmy; "they will be plunged in despair when they know we have failed."

"Ah, Lord Count, do not lose faith in the saint! That were mortal sin!

Can St. Andrew lie?" replied Peter, between the strokes of his mattock.

"St. Andrew cannot lie, but Provencal priests can," was the Count's menacing retort. "Think well on your sins, my good clerk. If you have been tempted by the devil to deceive us in this--rest a.s.sured the people will pluck you in pieces."

"I do not fear," said Peter, steadily, with the stolid resignation of the peasant born.

"You shall be taught to fear," muttered the Count; then to the others, "My Lord Bishop, my other lords, and you good Christians, I say farewell;" and he added bitterly,--"and let G.o.d have mercy upon our souls, for we can hope for nothing more on earth."

The Count was gone. And then for the first time, like the howling of a distant gale, they heard a raging and roaring around the basilica, creeping in through the thick walls and tiny windows.

"The mult.i.tude grows angry," muttered Pons de Balazan. "They have waited long." Then he went forth, and tried to calm the impatient people, and called in other proper men, to take the places of such of the twelve as had grown weary.

But no man took Richard's place. Not his own life, but the lives of a hundred thousand, shut up in that starving Antioch, hung on their toil. The chance of failure was so frightful, that not even he, whose fingers had learned so well to fight, to whom the life of a man was so small a matter, dared look that future in the face. Had the rest all forsaken, he would have toiled on, spading forth the earth, raising the dark mound higher, ever higher.

And all the company wore grim, set faces now, as they wrestled with their strengthening despair, except Peter Barthelmy and Sebastian. The monk was working with an energy surpa.s.sed only by Richard himself.

Longsword saw that he was still calm, that the light in his usually terrible eyes was even mild; and as the two stood side by side in the trench, Sebastian said to him: "Why fear, dear son? Are we not in G.o.d's hands? Can He do wrong, or bring His own word to naught?"

The Norman answered with an angry gesture:--

"Truly our sins must be greater than we dreamed, to be punished thus--to be promised deliverance, and have Heaven mock us!"

Sebastian's reply was a finger pointed upward to the painted Christ, just behind the two lamps.

"Be not fearful, O ye of little faith!"

Richard fought back the doubts rising in his soul, and flung all his strength anew into his work.

The noise without the church was louder now. They could hear shouts, curses, threats, rising from a thousand throats.

"Deceiver, the devil has led him to blast us with false hopes!

Impostor, he dreamed nothing! Out with them; out with them all! The whole company is leagued with Satan! Kill the false dreamer first, then yield to Kerbogha; he can only slay us!"

These and fifty more like shouts were ringing fiercely. Presently there was a crashing and pounding at the gates of the church. "Open, open! There is no lance! Slay the deceiver!"

Richard turned to the Bishop, who in sheer weariness had ceased chanting. "_Reverendissime_, the people are getting past control. In a moment they will break in on us and commit violence at the very altar; go and reason with them while there is yet time."

"Open! open! Death to Peter the Provencal!"

The roaring had swelled to thunders now. The strong iron-bound gates were yielding under the strokes of mace and battle-axe. Richard flung down his spade, and gripped Trenchefer. He would not defend the deceiving priest; but no unruly men-at-arms should touch a hair of Sebastian, if he also was menaced. But just as the portals began to give way, Peter Barthelmy, stripped of girdle and shoes, his hands empty, and only his shirt on his back, leaped into the deep black pit.

Even as the doors flew open, but while the crowd stood awed and hesitant at sight of the dim splendor of the nigh empty church, Raymond of Agiles fell on his knees and prayed loudly:--

"O Lord G.o.d of battles and of mercy, have pity on Thy people. Have mercy! Give us the lance, sure token of victory!"

And the moment his words died away, Peter Barthelmy lifted one hand up from the pit--and in his hand _the rusted head of a lance_!...

Now what followed no man could tell in due order. For afterward Raymond, the chaplain, was sure that he was the first to seize the lance from Peter, and kiss it fervently; and Sebastian and the Bishop and Richard Longsword each claimed the same for themselves. But all the toilers were kneeling ranged behind the Bishop, as he stood in the centre of the great aisle, and upheld the relic in sight of the mult.i.tude thrusting its way in.

"Kneel! Thank G.o.d with trembling!" rang the words; "for He has had mercy on His army, has remembered His elect! Behold the lance that pierced our Saviour's side!"

And at these words a wondrous sobbing ran through the swelling company; after the sobbing, a strange, terrible laughter, and after the laughter one great shout, that made the dark vaulting echo with thunder.

"_Gloria in excelsis Deo! et in terra pax hominibus bonae voluntatis!_"

so they sang in the church. But now the tidings had flown on wings unseen to the thousands without, and all the streets were rolling on the greater doxology: "_Laudemus te; benedicimus te, adoramus te, glorificamus te; gratias agimus tibi propter magnam gloriam tuam!_"

When Richard came out of the church, he was met by a cry from countless voices: "Hail! Richard de St. Julien! You were one who found the Holy Lance! The favor of G.o.d and the love of Christ go with you!

May you ever prosper. You were one of those who saved us all!"

[Ill.u.s.tration: "AND IN HIS HAND THE RUSTED HEAD OF A LANCE"]

"No, sweet friends," said the Norman to those who could hear. "We are all saved by the favor of G.o.d. I am only like you, a very sinful man." And he bowed his head, remembering his misdeeds, and wondering why he was chosen to have part in so great a mercy. But the people would not listen to him or his fellows. They carried the twelve, and Peter Barthelmy at their head, borne on high to the palace of the Patriarch; and there the dear Bishop Adhemar was roused from his sickness, and cured in a twinkling by the cry that shot on ahead of the company, "_Gloria! Gloria!_ The lance! The lance! Let us fall upon Kerbogha!"

The cry came to the men on the walls, and to Duke G.o.dfrey, who crossed himself and swore seven candlesticks of gold to our Lady of Antwerp.

The Moslems heard it, and those who were wise said, "Let us pray Allah to shield against the Frankish valor, if once it be kindled."

Only one shout now throughout the city. From the weakest and hungriest, "Battle!" But G.o.dfrey restrained those who wished to fight that very night. "Nothing rash," he urged; and it was determined to send an emba.s.sy to bid Kerbogha raise the siege or offer fair combat.

They sent as envoys Peter the Hermit, and one Herluin who knew the infidels' speech; also Richard Longsword, because he likewise spoke Arabic, and could cast a soldier's eye on the emir's camp. The parley sounded, and a gorgeously dressed _atabeg_ met the envoys at the Bridge Gate to lead them to Kerbogha. The Moslem made large eyes at the little monk with his rope girdle and tattered ca.s.sock, the humble interpreter, and the ponderous Frankish baron, in threadbare bleaunt and clattering a sword no arm from Tunis to Bokhara could wield.

"And is this emba.s.sy clothed with power to deal with our commander?"

demanded the wondering _atabeg_. "The pa.s.sions of the Lord Kerbogha are swift. Do not play with him."

"Friend," said Richard, soberly, "you shall find that we lack not authority."

Therefore the three were led into the paynim camp, of which the chief part lay north of the river. Here they saw that the might of the East had indeed gathered about Kerbogha: wiry Seljouks of Kilidge Arslan, brown Arabs from the Southern deserts, graceful Persians, dark-eyed Syrians in the white dress of the Ismaelians, gaudily clad Turkoman cavaliers from Khora.s.san and Kerman, Tartar hordesmen from the steppes of the far East; all stood about, pointing, whispering, jeering at the three Franks. "Were these the terrible men who had won Nicaea and Dorylaeum, and taken Antioch?" ran the t.i.tter. But no one molested them, as the _atabeg_ escorted through the avenues of black camel's-hair tents, interspersed with the gayer silken pavilions of the emirs. Then at last they found themselves before the palace tent of Kerbogha. Here they were led at once before the Moslem chief himself, who was clothed in gold, silk, and jewels, worth ten baronies in France. He was surrounded by the emirs and petty sultans, standing close about his throne; on his left hand was Kilidge Arslan the Seljouk, and Dekak lord of Damascus; on his right a figure Richard knew full well, clothed though he was in gilded, jewel-set armor from head to heel, Iftikhar Eddauleh! All around the tent were ranged Kerbogha's bodyguard, three thousand picked Turkish hors.e.m.e.n, panoplied in flashing steel; while the three envoys were led up a lane of giant negro mace-bearers, whose eyes followed the least beck of their lord, whose golden girdles and red loin-cloths shone doubly bright against their ebony skins. Richard, as he came, saw the stores of food and wine laid out for the pleasure of the infidels, while good Christians were starving. He saw the camels of the hospital corps of Kerbogha, and the host of physicians waiting here with their medicine chests, while in Antioch thousands had died of pestilence. Then his heart grew hard, and he held his head very high, as he and his companions walked down the file of negroes and stood before Kerbogha.

Now the chamberlains who were at the foot of the throne had motioned to the Franks to bow down, and kiss the carpet before Kerbogha; but the three stood like statues. When the silence was long, Kerbogha spoke forth, not veiling impatience.

"Fools, how long will you carry yourselves so arrogantly? It is yours to humble yourselves, not play the part of lords. A strange emba.s.sy this--who are you? What do you seek?"

And Harluin respectfully, but firmly, answered:--

"Lord, we are the envoys of the princes in Antioch; and this venerable hermit named Peter will speak for us."

A thousand eyes were on the little monk when he stepped forward. There was no sign of fear, his own eyes were very bright; he returned the haughty gaze of Kerbogha as if he were himself arbiter of life or death. Harluin strove to interpret for him; but Peter had recalled his Syriac learned on the pilgrimage, and some angel gave him the gift of tongues. Then right in the teeth of Kerbogha and the emirs the tattered monk flung his challenge:--

"Your Highness, the a.s.sembly of the chiefs shut up in Antioch have sent me to you to bid you cease from this siege of the city which the mercy of G.o.d has restored to us. The blessed Peter, prince of the Apostles, has by virtue of the will of G.o.d plucked it from you, never to return. Now, therefore, take choice: raise the siege of this city without delay, or prepare for instant battle. If you will, send any number of champions into the lists, and let them meet an equal number of our own; but if you will not--know that G.o.d is preparing to cut your host short in its sins! Nevertheless, our word is still--peace.

Return to your own country, the Christians will not molest you. We will even put up prayers that your hearts may be touched with the Gospel and your souls delivered from perdition. Sweet indeed to call you brethren, to conclude betwixt Frank and Turk abiding peace!

Otherwise, let there be war; and let the just G.o.d of battles judge between us! Surprise us, you cannot; neither will we steal victory.

But in fair field, man to man, will we meet you,--with few or with many,--and teach your haughty mouths the taste of Christian valor!"

When the monk had finished, there ran a low growl and bitter laugh amongst the emirs and guardsmen, while Iftikhar laughed loudest of them all.