The Sword of Islam

by Rafael Sabatini

“Precisely,” I answered with a laugh, “and it is here that the treason, the damnable treason whereof I spoke, was hatched. The die is cast, most noble cousin; you and that woman have made an Orléaniste of me; I may not go back, for you have duped me too far, therefore I go on. To-night, I set out to join the Duke of Orléans in Lorraine, but before I go, there will be a reckoning.”

  I faced him now, and my breath was hot and my eyes ablaze with the fury that possessed me. His jaw fell, and his handsome face grew ashen, as he caught the meaning of my words.

  “I do not understand,” he stammered.

  “You will understand everything in a few minutes,” I answered derisively, “for we are taught that in death all is made clear. You will understand how you duped me, and how I, in my turn, have duped you to accompany me hither so that justice may be done.”

  I laughed, and at the sound he recoiled as if I had struck him.

  “You are mistaken,” he gasped, trembling in every limb.

  I flung down my hat and cloak, and unsheathed my sword as I advanced upon him.

  “Draw! Traitor! Hound! Judas! Draw!” I thundered, flashing my blade before his eyes.

  “You are mistaken,” he repeated feebly, shrinking from me.

  “What!” I jeered, “Can one so bold to plot be so slow to draw? Is there no manhood in you, that you stand there trembling like one smitten with the ague? Or has the sight of steel struck terror into your woman’s heart?”

  He threw back his head at the taunt; then, with a muttered oath, he drew and fell on guard.

  Mortdieu! how I toyed with him! The hour was late, and none came that way to interrupt us. For full ten minutes I humoured his blundering swordplay, and mocked him the while with a recitation of his sins, asking him how it felt to die unshriven. He saw his death in my eyes, heard it in my voice, felt it in my wrists. The sweat burst into great beads upon his forehead, and in that ten minutes he suffered twenty agonies.

  A fearful shriek burst from his lips; he writhed for a second on my point like a wounded worm; then fell forward, and was dead before I had turned him over.

  Seizing him, I dragged him from the middle of the road where we had fought, to the door of Mademoiselle’s house. With his own dagger I pinned a slip of paper to his breast, whereon I had written : “An offering of her dupe, ‘the second Ravaillac,’ to Mademoiselle de Troiscantins.”

  Her coach was coming down the street as I completed my revengeful task; so, sheathing my sword and straightening my cloak, I moved swiftly away, leaving that carrion across her doorstep to greet her with its ghastly message.

  THE FOOL’S LOVE STORY

  CHAPTER I

  Kuoni von Stocken, the Hofnarr of Sachsenberg, heaves a weary sigh and a strange, half-sad, half-scornful expression sits upon his lean sardonic countenance, as, turning his back to the gay crowd of courtiers that fills the Ballroom of the Palace of Schwerlingen, he passes out on to the balcony, and bends his glance upon the sleeping town below.

  Resting his elbows upon the cool stone and his chin upon his hands, he may breathe the free, unpolluted air of heaven, out here; he may permit his face to assume what expression it lists; in a word, he may rest — if rest there be for one whose soul is full of bitterness and gall, whose heart is well-nigh bursting with the hopeless passion it conceals.

  He is sadly changed of late, this nimble-witted fool! Time was when his jests were bright and merry and wounded none save the arrogant and vain who deserved no better; but now, alas! he has grown morose and moody, and moves, listless and silent, deep in strange musings from which he but awakens at times, to give vent to such bursts of ghastly and even blasphemous mirth, as make men shudder and women cross themselves, deeming him possessed of devils.

  His tongue, from which the bright and sparkling bon-mots were once listened to with avidity, is now compared, not inadequately, with the fangs of some poisonous snake. And many who have felt its stinging sarcasms, pray devoutly that his Majesty may soon deem fit to look about him for a new jester.

  The young French nobleman, the Marquis de Savignon, in the honour of whose fiançailles with the lady Louisa von Lichtenau, to-night’s fête is held, seems to have become in particular the butt for the jester’s most biting gibes. This the Court thinks strange, for the young Frenchman has ever treated Kuoni kindly.

  What is amiss? Some swear that he is growing old; but that is untrue, for he is scarce thirty years of age and in point of strength and agility — though but a jester — he has no equal in the army of Sachsenberg. Others jestingly whisper that he is in love, and little do they dream how near the truth they are!

  Alas! Poor Kuoni! For ten years he has gloried in his suit of motley, but now of a sudden he seems to grow ashamed of his quaint black tunic with its cap and bells and pointed cape, and in his secret shame, at times he hangs his head; at times he curses bitterly to himself the fate which has made him the sport of courtiers, and which seems to forget that he is human, and that he has a heart.

  As he stands upon the balcony, gazing aimlessly now up into the starlit summer sky, now down upon the sleeping city of Schwer­lingen, his long, lithe figure bathed in a flood of light from the window behind him and his ears assailed by sounds of music and of revelry, the wretched jester feels — as he has never felt until to-night — the bitter ignominy of his position. In an agony rendered all the more terrible by the despair that fills his soul, he flings himself down upon a stone seat in a corner, and covers his face with his hands. Thus he sits for some few moments, his vigorous frame shaken by a fierce sobbing which no tears come to relieve, until a step close at hand bids him make an effort to overcome his emotion.

  The tall, slim figure of a girl stands for a moment framed in the open casement, and as, raising his eyes, Kuoni beholds her, he springs suddenly to his feet and turns his pale countenance towards her, so that the light from the room beyond falls full upon it, revealing clearly the signs of the storm of agony that has swept across the jester’s soul.

  An exclamation of wonder escapes the girl at the sight of that distorted face.

  “Kuoni!” she cries, coming forward, “what is amiss? Have you seen a ghost?”

  “Aye, Madame,” he answers, in accents full of bitter, bitter sadness, “I have indeed seen a ghost — the ghost of happiness.”

  “And is the sight then so distressing as your face and tone would tell me? Why, I should have deemed it otherwise.”

  “Yes, were it tangible, attainable happiness that I had beheld; but I said the ghost of happiness — in other words, the reflection of the joys of others — a shadow well calculated to strike despair into the hearts of those wretches who may not grasp the substance.”

  “And are you one of those wretches, Kuoni?” enquires the girl, her tone full of an interest and sympathy such as a wise man might have misconstrued but which the fool does not. “Why, ’tis said,” she continues, “that a jester’s is a gay and careless life. I have even heard it said by some of those fine gentlemen yonder that it gives rise to envy in them.”

  “I doubt it not, I doubt it not,” he answers with a laugh of scorn, “and I dare swear there are many of them whom a fool’s cap would fit better than it does me!”

  Then abruptly changing his tone and becoming earnest —

  “Fraülein von Lichtenau,” he says, scarce above a whisper, “this fête to-night is given in honour of your betrothal; will you deign to accept a poor jester’s deepest, sincerest wishes for your happiness.”

  There is something so strange and curious in his tone that the girl feels herself unaccountably moved by it.

  “I accept them and thank you, friend Kuoni, with all my heart,” she answers kindly, giving him her hand.

  “You call me friend Kuoni,” he cries, drawing a step nearer. “You call the poor fool, friend! May God bless you for that word!”

  “Kuoni! Kuoni!” comes a voice from within; but he heeds it not as, stooping, he raises her hand to his lips and kisses the slender fingers, as one might
kiss a sacred relic.

  “May God bless you, Madame, and if ever it should be your lot to need a friend, I swear it, by the Mass, that he whom you now honour with that proud title will be at hand.”

  Then, tearing himself away before she has time to answer, he enters the salon.

  “Kuoni! Kuoni! Where are you?” cry a dozen voices.

  “I am here,” he answers sourly; “what is amiss? Are there not fools enough assembled in one room, but that you must clamour for me to swell your number?”

  He has worn a mask too long to forget the part he plays in life, and as he stands now before them, all traces of his late emotion have disappeared from his face, albeit the natural expression, half-melancholic, half-scornful, remains.

  With his dark eyes he sweeps the glittering throng of Court beauties and gay gallants waiting for some one to take up his challenge.

  Where are Felsheim, Altenburg, Briedewald, and the other witty triflers of ready tongue? Silent! All silent — for they know the jester’s virulence too well to expose themselves to its venom in open Court.

  It is the débonnaire young foreigner, the Marquis de Savignon, who is rash enough to cross weapons with him.

  “They tell me, Kuoni,” he remarks with a complacent laugh, and in excellent German tainted but slightly by a foreign accent, “that you are thinking of abandoning the motley and turning cour­tier instead.”

  “That were easy,” answers the jester with a shrug, “for ’twixt fool and courtier there lies but a difference of designation.”

  “Aye, aye,” goes on de Savignon, “but ponder for a moment, my prince of fools, and think of what would become of Sachsenberg in your absence. His Majesty will never find such another fool!”

  “Not unless he appoints you my successor,” is the cool, sharp answer, whereat a titter arises among those who stand about, which makes the vain Frenchman turn pale with anger.

  “You seem to forget, master fool,” he says harshly, “that you are addressing the Marquis de Savignon and not bandying words with a fellow-clown!”

  He has wounded the jester more deeply than he imagines, and Kuoni’s proud spirit writhes and swells within him ’neath the stinging lash of the Marquis’ scornful words, which remind him anew of the gulf that lies between their social positions. But naught of this is visible on his face, over which a bland, indulgent smile is softly spreading.

  Only those who are well acquainted with him notice the slight compression of his thin lips, which, to them, forebodes a cutting retort.

  His head on one side and his hand on his chin, he regards de Savignon for a moment through lids half closed, as it were, in languor. Then, slowly and almost wearily, he makes answer:

  “Nay, Monsieur de Savignon, forgetfulness, methinks, lies more with your family than mine. Was it not you yourself, my lord, who, whilst at the siege of La Rochelle — so the story goes — one day when the Rochellais made a fierce sortie, forgot where the battle was being fought? So that in your absent-mindedness you galloped madly south, and by nightfall you were found at Royan, a good ten leagues from the scene of action.”

  It is de Savignon’s turn to tremble now, and as a great burst of laughter greets the jester’s sally, his complexion is of a greyish tint and his teeth are clenched in anger, noting which, Kuoni continues pitilessly:

  “Do you not see the humour of it, my lord? Why look so glum? Bah! You weary me; there is no more wit in your soul than milk in an oyster!”

  And with an easy laugh which contains almost a ring of contempt, the jester moves away to let others feel the sting of his tongue, from which none, save the King, are sacred.

  For a moment, the Frenchman follows the tall symmetrical figure with his eyes, then, deeming it best to affect unconcern, he shrugs his shoulders and, giving vent to a mirthless laugh, passes out on to the balcony to seek balm for his wounded spirit at the hands of his betrothed.

  CHAPTER II

  During the weeks that follow upon the night of the fête whereat Kuoni von Stocken so signally insulted the Marquis de Savig­non, these two men are careful to shun each other’s presence.

  The proud and vain French cavalier is not likely to forget the humiliation to which he has been subjected, and the memory of it is wont to make his fingers close over the jewelled hilt of his toy dagger and black vows of vengeance arise in his heart, fostering the hatred in which he holds the jester.

  But it is not his dagger alone that is ready to do murder. Ugly thoughts are running in Kuoni’s mind, and one night when de Savignon sits, easy in spirit for the while, telling the lady Louisa something that he has already recited to her upon several former occasions, he little dreams that from the curtains at his back two great lustrous eyes are watching them, and that a nervous hand is gripping a keen Italian blade. Did he but know how near at hand is death, his laugh would be less gay, his manner less unconcerned, his mind less easy. But he knows naught of this, and some angel must be watching over him, for the armed hand, uplifted in menace, does not descend, the jester sheathes his poniard and departs noiselessly the way he came.

  But as the weeks go swiftly by and the nuptials of the marquis are fast approaching, the strange and unaccountable moodiness of the whilom lighthearted jester grows more and more accentuated. Each day he seems to grow visibly thinner, as if some fell disease were gnawing at his vitals and slowly sapping his life and strength. Each day his pale cheeks appear paler and under his eyes there are deep black circles, suggestive of pain and suffering and sleepless nights.

  A more wretched, woe-begone picture than the poor fool presents, when none are by to spy upon his feelings, it were difficult to conceive.

  Meanwhile, however, there are other and graver matters to be considered in the kingdom of Sachsenberg than the secret agony of a lovesick jester. Rumours are abroad of a conspiracy to overthrow the Sonsbeck dynasty, organised, it is said, by many great lords, tired of their young King, Ludwig IV., who seems overmuch en­grossed in imitating the vices of the Court of his French cousin to pay great heed to matters of state and the welfare of his people.

  ’Tis a weakness not uncommon to kings, especially young ones, for monarchs are but ordinary folk when stripped of their purple. Ludwig, however, is blessed with a character which, in some matters, is as firm and earnest as it is weak and frivolous in others; moreover, he is doubly blessed in the possession of an astute and far-seeing servant in the person of the Ritter Heinrich von Grun­hain, the Captain of his Guards.

  He has been forced to listen to the grave things which this gentleman has to relate, concerning the dissatisfaction of some of the nobles who are zealously inciting the people to open rebellion, and a drastic line of action has been drawn up.

  The King is seated in his cabinet one night, about a month after the fête dealt with in the preceding chapter, and a week before the day appointed for the wedding of the lady Louisa von Lichtenau.

  Around the table five men are grouped; two are old and faithful servants of the late king, his father — the Duke of Ottrau and the Count von Horst; two are men still in the prime of life, Ritter von Grunhain, the Captain of his Guards, and Herr von Retzbach, his Minister; whilst the fifth is none other than the gay young Lord von Ronshausen, his favourite.

  There is a solemn and anxious look upon the faces of these six men, for it is being decided that upon that very night Sachsenberg shall tear a gruesome page from the history of France — there is to be a parody of the St. Bartholomée in Schwerlingen before sunrise.

  “It is better thus, my lords,” says the King, and although his face is pale and haggard, his voice is calm; “for were we to publish the matter, and give the traitors open trial, who knows what might ensue? Men are ever ready to revolt against those who rule them, and who can say but that the trial of these rebels would swell the ranks of the disloyal — for treason is an infectious malady — and prove the signal for open revolt? As it is, when the news goes round, to-morrow, that ten noble lords have been found murdered in their beds, there w
ill be much marvelling and much surmising — also, maybe, some grief — but those who have listened to the doctrines of these ten, and sharpened their weapons in anticipation of a fray, will understand, and will be stricken with terror at the awful fate which has overtaken their leaders. Believe me, gentlemen, they will be silent and they will disperse.”

  “Will not your Majesty consider —” began the grey-haired Duke of Ottrau; but the King cut him short.

  “I have considered, my lords, and I have decided. What matters the manner of these men’s death? They have richly earned their fate, and if they were openly tried they could not escape the scaffold — so what difference does it make whether it be the dagger or the axe? None to them, but much to me.”

  The tone is too determined to permit of further argument. It but remains for Grunhain to receive his Majesty’s instructions.

  “Here is the list, Captain,” the King continues, taking a paper from the table. “I will read out the names of those whom we have sentenced: Kervenheim von Huld, Nienberge, Blankenburg, Eber­holz, Retzwald, Leubnitz, Hartenstein, Reussbach, and the French Marquis de Savignon.”

  “Concerning that last one, Sire,” ventures Ronshausen, the favourite, “has your Majesty remembered that he is a subject of the King of France?”

  “I have,” answers Ludwig, “and I have also remembered that he — a foreigner to whom I have ever shown great favour and consideration, and who, were he to live, would wed one of the noblest ladies of my Court — couples ingratitude with his treason. No doubt he whom they intend to set up in my stead has bribed him richly; but he shall pay for his folly, as others are paying for theirs, with his life: and I fail to see how I am to be made accountable to the King of France for the chance assassination of a subject of his, in my capital. The matter is settled, gentlemen; Ritter von Grunhain knows how to see to its execution. There is no more to be said,” he goes on, rising, “but when you hear midnight striking in the belfry of St. Oswald, say a prayer, gentlemen, for the repose of the souls of ten traitors whose knell it will be sounding. And now, let us join the Court.”