paled and set his lips as he extended his left hand.
“The right one,” objected Bayezid, following all that passed with the eye of a connoisseur.
A moment later Michael’s right arm had been thrust up to the elbow into the iron gullet of the lion and strapped into place. The Breton stiffened as he felt the cold touch of the vise, concealed within the form of the lion, grip his bare forearm. Bayezid nodded, leaning back on his pillows, under the sweep of a peacock fan in the hands of a slave.
The two Janissaries threw their weight on the projecting levers and there came to the ears of the spectators a dull crack as if an arrow had been snapped in half.
But Michael did not cry out. Sweat started on his face and blood dripped from his lip where his teeth had set upon it. This did not suit Bayezid, who had expected screams and a prayer for mercy.
“Again,” he snarled. The two torturers altered the position of Michael’s broken arm slightly and clamped the levers into place a second time.
This time Michael groaned softly and swayed on his feet, sinking to his knees.
“Now the caphar’s pride is broken because his strength has passed from him,” thought Bayezid, watching keenly. To the attentive sheik he whispered:
“The broken ends of the bone of the arm have been ground together and he will whine for mercy—like the other dogs who have no stomach for pain.”
The Janissaries released Michael’s arm from the instrument of torture at a glance, from the sultan. On the back of the forearm the skin had been broken by a bloodied fragment of bone.
Supporting himself by his left hand on the table, Michael rose slowly to his feet, wincing and setting his lips as he did so. His eyes were dark with agony as they sought Bayezid’s face.
The youthful pride and humor had vanished from Michael’s countenance, leaving a grim mask of purpose. The abundant vitality of his powerful body had been sapped by the ordeal. But there was a new vigor in his poise, the strength of an unalterable determination.
So the captive faced his tormentor.
“I shall not forget this, my lord sultan.” He indicated his maimed limb. “I shall be avenged—” His voice choked.
The Sheik of Rum who had been studying the eyes of the injured man now drew his weapon again and salaamed before Bayezid.
“O Most Wise, it would be best to slay this one. An injured snake is quick to strike.”
The Thunderbolt shook his head coldly. He had not yet tasted the delight of the torture to the fullest.
“Nay. I would watch the caphar run beside my litter on the morrow, and see how he bears his pain.”
The Sheik of Rum was very wise.
IT WAS a week later that the six captives made their attempt to escape from the caravan of the Osmanli. During the week they had been ascending to the cooler plateau of Lake Van, where the summits of the Caucasus were visible far to the north.
Yet it was to the east that the six had decided to flee. They had seen that the outriders of the Turks who pillaged supplies in the villages of lesser Armenia had kept a vigilant outlook in that direction.
To the east lay a pass called the Gate of Shadows, leading into the lands of Tatary. Michael and his mates did not then know why the Turks shunned this pass. But they believed that once in the Gate of Shadows they would be safe from pursuit owing to this superstition of the Turks.
The night on which they made their venture was clear. The stars shone brilliantly through the colder air of the height by the lake. Men and beasts of the caravan were weary after a long march. Bayezid was never sparing of his followers.
Two things had decided the Christians upon this night. They were at the point of the march from Constantinople to Aleppo which was nearest the Gate of Shadows. And the Moslems had fasted for three days. That night was the feast of Miriam when the long fast was broken and warriors and courtiers alike satiated themselves with meat and wine.
Bayezid, although calling himself head of the faith, always allowed his men their fill of debauchery, knowing that it drew soldiers to his ranks.
Consequently the Janissaries who watched the aul where the Christian captives were kept apart from the slaves of other races were a little drunk and more than a little sleepy.
Michael, by tacit consent, had been chosen the leader of the six. Memory of the torture to which he had been subjected had made the Portuguese and Italians eager to flee. Cowards at heart, the nearer peril of the “iron sleeve” made them willing to risk the death that was penalty for an attempt to flee their bondage.
And Michael, who yearned for the freedom that would afford him a chance to strike back at Bayezid, had formed a plan readily.
The aul was a rough square shelter of rocks resembling very much a large hut without a roof. The stone walls were as high as a man. The two yawning spearmen who acted as guards had built a fire just within the entrance.
As usual the prisoners gobbled down the evil-tasting pilau—broth of rotting sheep’s flesh—that was set before them in a kettle. The evening prayers of the Moslems had been completed long since and soft radiance coming from the silk pavilions of the nobles indicated that the feast was well along.
A heavy guard of wakeful Mamelukes stood about the enclosure where Bayezid was quartered and other mounted sentries paced about the circuit of the fires around which warriors and slaves alike drank, sang and slept.
It was the first watch of the night when one of the Portuguese rose and tossed a double armful of dried tamarisk branches on the fire that had sunk to embers. A crackling blaze climbed skyward barely three paces inside the aul entrance.
For a moment the interior of the walled space would be concealed from the glance of passers-by. One of the Janissaries growled and spat, motioning the Portuguese back to his place. The other sentry leaned on his battle-ax half-asleep.
Making signs that he wished to communicate something, the captive moved nearer the first sentry, while one of the Italians arose stealthily and keeping within the large shadow cast by the three men near the fire, slipped to the rear of the Janissary.
Michael appeared to be asleep. In spite of his crippled arm—the bones had been rudely set by a hakim of the sheik who, in obedience to the pleasure of his master, intended Michael to live—in spite of his weakness and the fever that had set upon him for several days, the guards always kept vigilant watch upon him, knowing that the Breton was more dangerous than his mates.
Through his half-closed eyes Michael could see the Italian detach a stone from the top of the wall behind the three men silently. The arms of the captives had been left free although their ankles were secured at night by heavy leather thongs that would not yield to their fingers. Naturally none of them had a weapon of any kind.
The sentries had no reason to expect an attempt to escape. Even if the two Janissaries could be disposed of, the captives would have to pass through the camp and pierce the cordon of riders in the outer darkness in order to gain the plain.
Even clear of the camp they would be pursued by well-mounted warriors and the odds against
