style="font-size:15px;"> Michael Bearn gripped the knight by the shoulder fiercely.
“The Constable of France—defeated—”
“Slain.”
The wounded man was too weary to be surprised at the fire in the eyes that burned into his. Michael drew a long breath. He was too late. And his countrymen had fallen before Bayezid.
The knight was removing his mail hood with shaking hands. “We thought the Saracen was shattered,” he said hopelessly. “Our camp was surprised, yet the French mounted and rode to the attack, through the skirmishers and the cavalry with white woolen hats——”
“The Janissaries,” nodded Michael.
“—and past them, into the ranks of the horse-guards that are called Sipahis, of Bayezid. Our lances, forsooth, had broken them asunder. We had lost many and our ranks were ill-formed when we gained the summit of the hill where we found not a rabble of defeated soldiery, but a forest of forty thousand lances. Ah, Saint Denis!”
“Bayezid ever keeps his best troops till the last.”
“He has ordered slain ten thousand Christian captives, sparing only the Count of Nevers and twenty knights. I escaped.”
“And the emperor——?”
“Floats down the river in a boat. He made a brave stand, ’tis said, until the Serbs joined the Moslems and struck his flank——”
“ ’Tis done. Rest you and sleep.” Michael spoke curtly, what with the hurt of the news. “There are wounded to be brought off from shore.”
URGING his vessel almost upon the shore, he formed his men-at-arms into lines to pass out what of the injured they could find, while he made his way inland to turn aside the fugitives he met into the galleass.
He saw only haggard and dusty men, weaponless and exhausted. On mules and purloined horses camp-followers dashed past along the highway, striking aside those who got in their path. Semblance of order or discipline there was none.
Wounded foot-soldiers who had cast aside their heavier armor limped into the light of the burning houses nearby, silent and grim-lipped. Michael was mustering a group of these at the water’s edge when a mailed horseman spurred up and grasped at his shoulder.
“For the love of——! Is’t true there is a ship at hand?”
Michael looked up under drawn brows and saw a handsome Italian cavalier, his velvet finery besmirched and his jeweled cap awry.
“A hundred ducats, sailor, if you will take me on your ship at once,” the horseman cried, fingering at a heavy purse with a quivering hand.
“Spare your purse-strings and wait your turn,” responded Michael shortly. But the cavalier, befuddled by fear, was pushing aside the watchful foot-soldiers, to leap at the ropes that had been lowered from the vessel, when Michael’s left arm, thrust across his chest, stayed him.
“You are a captain, signor,” he observed quietly. “Help me to get these wounded to safety.”
The Italian glanced back and saw that a fresh route of fugitives had come into the light at the shore. A tall bazaar trader with his servants was striking down those who sought to climb into a muddy cart drawn by nearly exhausted horses. Michael could read the fear in the red-bearded face of the trader. A woman, her skirt dragging about her knees, ran screaming into the path of the cart, holding out imploring arms.
The servants, under the oaths of their bearded master, lashed the horses on and the woman, in all her sad finery, was cast to earth under the hoofs of the beasts. The cart disappeared into the darkness but she lay where she had fallen.
“You see!” cried the Italian. “Death is upon us unless we fly. Out of my way, dogs——”
Drawing back his arm, Michael struck the man, sending him headlong into the water. Heedless of the blow, the other rose and fought his way to the ropes that offered a way to safety.
“Wo!” His cry came back to Michael. “Death is upon us. Fly!”
“Fly!” echoed the wounded, struggling toward the ropes. “The Turks are at our heels.”
Those who could not stand unsupported were thrust down into the water. Men, striking at one another’s heads and tearing at the surcoats which bore a crimson cross—the stronger among the fugitives, up to their necks in water, fought for the ropes.
When Michael at last—seeing that the galleass was crowded to capacity—clambered up the gilded woodwork of the stern and gave the signal to get under weigh, the tumult on shore took on a fiercer note.
Looking back, he could see the flash of scimitars among the huddle of the flying. Lean, turbaned horsemen wheeled and charged through the burning houses. A shrill shout pierced the wails of the injured.
“Ya, Allah! Hai—Allah—hai!”
Michael Bearn, hearing this familiar cry of triumph of the Moslems, saw again in his mind’s eye the ruined villages of Armenia, the tortured slaves, and—most clearly of all—the grave in the sand before the Gate of Shadows.
He looked at the two men beside him, the sleeping French knight whose valor had been fruitless, and the sullen Italian officer who regarded him askance, fingering his bruised face.
The army of crusaders that he had journeyed for a year to join was no more. And Bayezid, angered by the loss of so many of his men, had doomed ten thousand captives to death. Was there no power on earth that could match the Thunderbolt?
“I wonder,” thought Michael. He knew that of one place Bayezid was afraid, or at least that the Thunderbolt shunned that place.
It was the Gate of Shadows.
III
THE BLOW IN THE DARK
IT was an hour after vespers and the lights of Saint Mark’s were glowing softly against the vault of the sky over the great city of Venice. Along the narrow streets, however, and the winding canals the square houses with their grilled doors and carved stonework showed only slits of light from barred windows.
At that hour worthy citizens of the City of the Lagoons went abroad attended only by linkmen and with armed retainers to guard their backs. Those who were more cautious, or who had more powerful enemies, paid bravi to watch the retainers.
A stranger wandering from the lagoons and the main canals would soon have lost his way. In the poorer quarters where the high buildings seemed to lean together against the sky men looked closely into the faces of those they met and turned the corners wide.
Near the Piazza where the walled palaces of the nobles lined the canals the alleys were filled with refuse and ended more often than not in a blind wall. Servants stood whispering in the shadows of the postern doors and often a soft laugh came from an invisible balcony overhead.
“A pox on these castles,” said Michael Bearn
