University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.

The night was far advanced when Julian of Consuegra penetrated the tent of the
Arabian, Musa Ben Nosier. But the latter did not sleep. He was even then
busy with his best consellors, in considering the events of the late battle, its disastrous
effects, and in how far it was in his power to repair them. Deep, indeed,
was the mortification which he felt at the signal defeat which he had sustained.
The Arab warrior was unaccustomed to reverses. Hitherto, his army had swept
onwards with the inresistible wing of the tempest. Thousands had perished by
the way side, but countless swarms, that seemed never to know decrease, had gone
forward, like their own locusts, blackening the face of the land, and leaving but
desolation behind them in token of their terrible progress. His sword had indeed
seemed to carry with it, as claimed by the Moslem prophet, the irresistible will of
the deity. The oriental kingdoms, realms the most powerful in the East, had yielded
to his arms. That he should be baffled upon the shores of the Atlantic by the
Northern warriors, scarcely numbering one tenth his legions, might well provoke
his fiercest passions and prompt the expression of his immitigable rage. Musa
Ben Nosier was a man of terrible passions. But he also knew, in some degree,
the art of suppressing or silencing their exhibition. He could enjoy their excitements,
yet hide their show. The flame could burn in his bosom—nay, warm it into
powerful impulse and decision, yet could he preserve upon his features the aspect
of a most placid calm, an indifference amounting to coldness, which effectually
baffled the anticipations and judgment of the beholder. He was greatly advanced
in years. Seventy summers had passed over his head, yet he looked not less bold,
less strong, or less capable of endurance. His beard was thick, and hung down
upon his breast, soft, white and flowing, as that of the earliest patriarchs of the
East. White as the snows of Caucasus, he had the art of dying it with henna
when he came before strangers, by which, as his cheeks were smooth and unwrinkled,
the appearance of much age was removed from his face, and the spectator
beheld only a great warrior, in whose limbs there was yet the promise of long
years of brave achievement. The unexpected entrance of Count Julian surprised
him, and the white beard, now loose and untrimmed, betrayed the extreme age of
the venerable warrior. He sat upon a divan of oriental richness. His tent declared
the vanity and the wonder of his conquests. The shawls and furs of one region,
the crimson drapery of another, the gems and jewels of a third—were hung, or
strewn about the chamber, in careless profusion. In the centre burned a glorious
cresset, whose rim, crowned with precious stones, cast about the apartment a prismatic
halo which dazzled the uplooking vision to behold. The caftan of the old
warrior was set with jewels. The scymitar which lay upon his lap was surmounted
in like manner. A sapphire, whose worth might be that of a princely city,

glowed softly upon the front of his turban, from which shot up a single feather
of the heron.

Musa Ben Nosier was in council with his best officers. Their personal state
was scarcely less imposing than his own. Their conquests over wealthy nations,
had led to their adoption, in great degree, of the wealth and and luxuries of
which they came into possession; and, indeed, the love of splendor is natural to
the simplest tribes of the Orient. Five war-like captains surrounded their chief.
They were a hardy and valiant band, with fiery black eyes, swarthy cheeks,
and great muscular activity. Their words, as they conferred together, were few,
but expressive. Their tones were low and earnest. Their countenances denoted
depression, but showed nothing of unmanly despondency. They felt their reverses,
it is true, and were mortified by them—but these feelings did not lead to
any abandonment of hope or resolution. It was of their future hope and resolution
that they spoke, when the gigantic form of Julian of Consuegra stood proudly
in their midst. His superior height and bulk, the massy vigor of his limbs,
his erect majestic frame, fierce commanding eye, might well cause to start the inferior
persons—inferior in majesty and bulk at least—by whom he was surrounded.
His air was rather that of conquest and defiance, than of friendship or solicitation.

In an instant every form was erect, every eye darkened with indignation, every
scymitar flashed in the light of the burning cresset, as if winged for instant execution.
Old Musa Ben Nosier was in a moment on his feet, his right foot thrown
back, his right arm swung in air, and his keen weapon of Damascus, glittering in a
snake like circle behind his own head, ready to descend upon that of the intruder.
Scornful and haughty was the smile with which Julian beheld these preparations.
His form remained unshaken, erect and unmoved, as at his first entrance. His
arms were folded upon his breast with the placid indifference of one who feels
that there is nothing now for him to fear.

“What!” he exclaimed, “fear you danger from one man, he weaponless, save
with this, and this even now dripping with Christian blood!”

He drew from his breast the dagger with which he had stricken down the young
prince, Egiza, to the earth. Thus speaking, he flung the weapon at the feet of
the Arab chieftain.

“Behold me!” he exclaimed, “Julian of Consuegra, your enemy—he stands unarmed
among ye—strike if ye see fit, and if thus your terrors move ye!”

Musa Ben Nosier lowered his scymitar, and resumed his seat upon the divan—
the weapon was again laid across his lap. His followers, at a sign from their chief,
forbore their attitudes of defence.

“Why comes Julian of Consuegra to the tents of the faithful?” demanded Musa.
“Why comes our enemy to the Arab? Would he have peace with the sons of the
prophet?”

“He would give it—and more! He would give them victory!”

“Ha! speak on!”

“Julian comes to bring conquest to the tents of the prophet. He comes to yield
the keys of Tingitania—nay, more—Musa Ben Nosier shall have possession of those
keys which unlock the gates of Spain—which secure the empire of the Goth—the
great cities of Roderick—realms of wealth and splendor—territories of pride and
numbers—such as the Arab does not dream in all his Mauritanian range—these are
gifts which Julian brings to the Arab!”

“Thou canst do this, and wilt?” demanded Musa eagerly.

“I can do this, and will.”

“Wherefore? What wouldst thou that Musa Ben Nosier shall do for thee in
return?”

“Give me vengeance!”

“Vengeance!”

“Ay! vengeance! the last, the best food to the famishing heart of pride. The
blood of the tyrant—the foe! Thou shalt have all Tingitania, all Spain, so that
thou shalt help me to my vengeance upon Roderick who sways the realm thereof.”

“What hath he done to thee, that thou shouldst hate him thus?”

“What matter that thou shouldst know? Enough that he hath wronged me so
that I pant for vengeance—so that I have but one prayer—one passion—and that
is for his blood. Let this suffice thee—this is enough for thee to know.”

“Nay, by the prophet, but thou errest, Count Julian of Consuegra. We may
not trust the enemies of the prophet but for good cause. This day thou fightest
like a brave soldier and a faithful, in behalf of thy king and country; this night
thou wouldst destroy them both. That thou wast in earnest this day, when thou
didst battle under the banners of the cross, thousands of the slain among my people
declare from the bed of slaughter where they lie. But that thou art in earnest
in what thou sayest to-night, is a matter to be shown by sufficient reason. What
has happened to thee since we met in battle but this morning, to make so great a
change in thy heart? What have been the tidings of this night, that thou art here
with a language which is now so strange?”

Wild and terrible was the meaning in that eye which the Count Julian cast upon
the speaker.

“Moor!” said he, “there are some words which the proud heart dreads to speak.
There are some truths too terrible for the strongest soul to bear when spoken.
Thou art a warrior—thou canst feel what it is to be stricken with dishonor! Ha!
thou canst feel shame—thou hast a guess that there are some injuries that stain as
well as hurt—that degrade as well as destroy. Wouldst thou have me name my
hurt? Wouldst thou have me linger over the words that tell of my dishonor—that
show me trampled in the earth, with all that the Christian heart considers holy in the
world of his private affections, made loathsome, even when most precious in his
eyes?”

“There are offences against the proud heart which it feels shame to declare, even
as thou sayest,” replied the Arab, gravely.

“Think thou then that mine is the worst of these—that there is none more terrible
or humbling to the soul, than is the one which hath driven Julian of Consuegra
to thy tents, seeking that vengeance which else he may not compass. He comes to
thee with a cry of blood. He will give thee blood. Thy sword shalt grow weary
of slaughter in the ranks of the Christian—thy feet shall tread upon their haughtiest
necks—thy crescent shall shed its baleful lights from the high turrets which now
bear the banner of the cross. These shall be thy triumphs, if thou will lend thyself
to mine. Array thy troops with mine at my bidding, and I will lead thee into the
very heart of Spain. I will yield that fatal country to the empire of thy Caliph.
For me, I have but one prayer—I make but one stipulation—that no weapon in
thy array shall dare uplift itself against the heart of Roderick. He shall be my
prize and victim only. I claimed his life for my reward. That is the one sole
prayer, as it is now the sole object, which dwells in mine!”

“Thou hast said well, and if Musa Ben Nosier, leading the troops of the prophet,
could put faith in the words of the infidel—”

“Pshaw! what dost thou heed of these tenets of a national superstition—thine
or mine!” was the scornful response of the apostate. “Thou art a man and a

warrior. What matter to thee these idle reveries of the dreamer and the woman—
these miserable mummeries by which the cunning priesthood fetters the feeble spirit
to its own purposes. Thy God shall be mine, if thou wilt. I have a purpose—a
conquest—a large human desire, which reigns paramount in my bosom. Thou
hast also. Shall these be baffled and set at nought because of a fable. I tell thee,
Musa Ben Nosier, if thou hast at heart the triumphs of thy Caliph, as Julian of
Consuegra hath those of his revenge, then will thy faith in me carry thee far above
the miserable superstitions of those creeds which make the vulgar worship among our
mutual people. It is not what I believe, but whether thou believest me! Look I
like one who comes hither to deceive? Have I put myself, unweaponed, in thy
power, for a falsehood? See'st thou not in these eyes—in this face—hearest thou
not in my voice—in these accents—that I am dishonored—wrought by shame to
madness—that I am terribly earnest in what I promise—in what I demand? If
thou be true to thy Caliph, thou canst not help but give thy faith to my assurance.
Thy question is not whether I believe in Jesus or Mahomet, but whether I believe
in the tyranny and crimes of Roderick—whether I am sincere and resolute in the
burning desire to avenge them.”

We need not pursue the details of this conference. Suffice it that Musa Ben
Nosier still hesitated. He was a truer worshipper, after his faith and fashion, than
Count Julian had ever been with his. He believed that, to the inherent virtues of
Mohammedanism, all his successes were fairly to be ascribed; and he looked with
real horror upon the apostate when he so coolly declared his indifference equally to
all religions. Julian, meanwhile, had withdrawn himself, with averted brow, as if
disdaining farther exhortation or argument, to a remote part of the tent; leaving
the Arab generals to discuss among themselves what decision to make upon the
matter. It does not need that we should inquire how it was that Musa showed
himself so cautious in committing his armies to a project which promised so greatly
for the success of his cause. It may be that he knew not the extent or the weakness
of the empire of Roderick—it may be that he questioned the ability of Julian
to convert his forces to the cause of their country's enemy. It was certainly impossible
to doubt the terrible sincerity of Julian's hate, gleaming out in his eyes,
and articulate in every syllable of his keen and anguished utterance. It did not
matter that the Moslem did not feel in the same degree with the Christian warrior
the cruelty and shame of the peculiar wrong which had driven him to desperation,
and which, by the way, it became necessary for him to declare in language which
was humiliatingly distinct. The purity of woman forms but a humble consideration
in the eyes of a people who regard her, in the highest point of view, only as
a minister to the most sensual appetities of man. Her fidelity, as a creature of the
harem, does not necessarily involve a guaranty of her purity as a moral being.

But, while Musa doubted, one of his warriors, who had hitherto observed the
most cautious silence, approached and challenged attention. Tall and gaunt, with
a face scarred with wounds, and roughened by long exposure to the worst conflicts
of the seasons, was the person of this warrior. He was a genuine Arab—one
whose soul might be said to live only in arms and the excitement of the strife.
His height, like that of Saul, exceeded that of most men; his arms, unequally
long, extended almost to his knees. To complete the hardness and severity of this
outline, he was wanting an eye, which was stricken out by an hostile lance in one
of his numerous battles. He was called for this reason el Tuerto, or the One-Eyed;
Taric el Tuerto! This man had no pleasures but in war. His affections were set
upon his steed and scymitar. He was the perfect master of his weapon; and it was
wonderful, even among his brother Arabs, to see with what proficiency he could

use the lance in battle. He had been marked from his boyhood as one of whom
wonders might yet be known; and there were prophecies among his native people
of Damascus, that promised that he should one day become a mighty instrument
for conquest in the hands of Mahomet. It may be that this was one of those predictions
which lead to their own verification. It may be that, even in this hour,
in the tent of Musa, Taric el Tuerto, hearkening to the words of Count Julian,
and heeding the reluctance of his general, remembered the early tradition of his
youth.

“Why,” said he “should you doubt the assurance of the Christian? Is it not
a great conquest which he promises? Shall we forego this conquest because of
the peril? Is it that we have no soldiers for the adventure? Are lives too precious
for the risk? Are the warriors of the prophet too apprehensive of danger,
to encounter peril for the promotion of his work? What is the peril? Death? I
fear not death! A thousand sons of Ishmael are ready to fall with me in battle.
I will take this danger, nothing fearing but that we shall find good friends. Give
me but a handful of the forces of Waled, and send me forth with the Count Julian.”

The words of the swarthy Arabian were of instant effect.

“If the Christian will swear upon the Koran—if he will forswear the cross,
and adopt the crescent?” said Musa.

“Surely!” exclaimed Taric, looking to where Julian stood; “surely if he hath
suffered this great wrong—if he hungers for this great revenge—he will not shrink
from a trial of which he thinks so lightly.”

The flushed features of Julian were turned upon the group. There was a moment's
hesitation in his glance; but as he read the expression in their eyes, he strode
toward them.

“Behold!” said he, and, as he spoke, his foot trampled heavily upon the crosshilted
dagger which he had previously cast upon the earth. The action was understood.

“It is good!” exclaimed Musa Ben Nosier, and, striking the little gong which
stood beside him, he pronounced, in low accents, the single word, “Abul-Cassim!”

The priest made his appearance from a recess in the apartment—a man of venerable
aspect, having a benign and gentle countenance. A few words from Musa
explained his object. The Arab generals surrounded the apostate. Abul-Cassim
advanced, bearing in one hand a splendid copy of the Koran, in the other a small
casket of solid silver, in one of the compartments of which was a chafing dish of
fiery coals. A rich stand of ebony, cushioned with crimson, was placed before
him, upon which the Koran was laid. The casket of silver occupied a ledge or
shelf below it. An odorous powder, cast upon the coals, sent up a grateful but
somewhat oppressive perfume; and while this was floating in the confined atmosphere
of the tent, Abul-Cassim brought forth a chrystal vase filled with the purest
water. In this he motioned Julian to lave his fingers.

“This is a wretched mummery!” was the exclamation of the person addressed,
but he complied with the requisition. This done, Abul-Cassim laid bare the wrist
of the Christian, and, with a sharp instrument which he had previously dipped in
some precious ointment, he punctured the skin. Julian submitted with the air of
one who himself scorns the performance. The operation consumed but a single
instant, and, when it was over, Julian observed, with a feeling of disquiet for
which he was scarcely able to account, that a distinct blood-red crescent was visible
upon the arm. Instinctively he passed his thumb over the character. The
Emir smiled as he did so. It did not lessen the disquiet of the apostate to discover
that his involuntary effort to obliterate the foreign and unnatural symbol was wholly

fruitless. It was the effect of natural superstition that made him feel, however
little of a Christian he had been before, that he was now wholly separated from
Christian alliance, and delivered over to the arch enemy of that creed in which his
people still believed and trembled. A chapter of the Koran was now read by
Abul-Cassim, and Julian of Consuegra was ennobled in the ranks of the Moslem
faithful. Did he fancy at that moment the distant shriek which filled the air?
Was it, indeed, the last cry of the maternal genius, abandoning her sacred trust
forever?