The Talisman by Walter Scott (best novels of all time txt) 📕

The anxiety of De Vaux for his master's honour led him to whisper in English, “For the blessed Virgin's sake, beware what you attempt, my liege! Your full strength is not as yet returned—give no triumph to the infidel.”

“Peace, fool!” said Richard, standing firm on his ground, and casting a fierce glance around; “thinkest thou that I can fail in HIS presence?”

The glittering broadsword, wielded by both his hands, rose aloft to the King's left shoulder, circled round his head, descended with the sway of some terrific engine, and the bar of iron rolled on the ground in two pieces, as a woodsman would sever a sapling with a hedging-bill.

“By the head of the Prophet, a most wonderful blow!” said the Soldan, critically and accurately examining the iron bar which had been cut asunder; and the blade of the sword was so well tempered as to exhibit not the least token of having suffered by the feat it had performed. He then took the King's hand, and looking on the size and muscular strength which it exhibited, laughed as he placed it beside his own, so lank and thin, so inferior in brawn and sinew.

“Ay, look well,” said De Vaux in English, “it will be long ere your long jackanape's fingers do such a feat with your fine gilded reaping-hook there.”

“Silence, De Vaux,” said Richard; “by Our Lady, he understands or guesses thy meaning—be not so broad, I pray thee.”

The Soldan, indeed, presently said, “Something I would fain attempt—though wherefore should the weak show their inferiority in presence of the strong? Yet each land hath its own exercises, and this may be new to the Melech Ric.” So saying, he took from the floor a cushion of silk and down, and placed it upright on one end. “Can thy weapon, my brother, sever that cushion?” he said to King Richard.

“No, surely,” replied the King; “no sword on earth, were it the Excalibur of King Arthur, can cut that which opposes no steady resistance to the blow.”

“Mark, then,” said Saladin; and tucking up the sleeve of his gown, showed his arm, thin indeed and spare, but which constant exercise had hardened into a mass consisting of nought but bone, brawn, and sinew. He unsheathed his scimitar, a curved and narrow blade, which glittered not like the swords of the Franks, but was, on the contrary, of a dull blue colour, marked with ten millions of meandering lines, which showed how anxiously the metal had been welded by the armourer. Wielding this weapon, apparently so inefficient when compared to that of Richard, the Soldan stood resting his weight upon his left foot, which was slightly advanced; he balanced himself a little, as if to steady his aim; then stepping at once forward, drew the scimitar across the cushion, applying the edge so dexterously, and with so little apparent effort, that the cushion seemed rather to fall asunder than to be divided by violence.

“It is a juggler's trick,” said De Vaux, darting forward and snatching up the portion of the cushion which had been cut off, as if to assure himself of the reality of the feat; “there is gramarye in this.”

The Soldan seemed to comprehend him, for he undid the sort of veil which he had hitherto worn, laid it double along the edge of his sabre, extended the weapon edgeways in the air, and drawing it suddenly through the veil, although it hung on the blade entirely loose, severed that also into two parts, which floated to different sides of the tent, equally displaying the extreme temper and sharpness of the weapon, and the exquisite dexterity of him who used it.

“Now, in good faith, my brother,” said Richard, “thou art even matchless at the trick of the sword, and right perilous were it to meet thee! Still, however, I put some faith in a downright English blow, and what we cannot do by sleight we eke out by strength. Nevertheless, in truth thou art as expert in inflicting wounds as my sage Hakim in curing them. I trust I shall see the learned leech. I have much to thank him for, and had brought some small present.”

As he spoke, Saladin exchanged his turban for a Tartar cap. He had no sooner done so, than De Vaux opened at once his extended mouth and his large, round eyes, and Richard gazed with scarce less astonishment, while the Soldan spoke in a grave and altered voice: “The sick man, saith the poet, while he is yet infirm, knoweth the physician by his step; but when he is recovered, he knoweth not even his face when he looks upon him.”

“A miracle!—a miracle!” exclaimed Richard.

“Of Mahound's working, doubtless,” said Thomas de Vaux.

“That I should lose my learned Hakim,” said Richard, “merely by absence of his cap and robe, and that I should find him again in my royal brother Saladin!”

“Such is oft the fashion of the world,” answered the Soldan; “the tattered robe makes not always the dervise.”

“And it was through thy intercession,” said Richard, “that yonder Knight of the Leopard was saved from death, and by thy artifice that he revisited my camp in disguise?”

“Even so,” replied Saladin. “I was physician enough to know that, unless the wounds of his bleeding honour were stanched, the days of his life must be few. His disguise was more easily penetrated than I had expected from the success of my own.”

“An accident,” said King Richard (probably alluding to the circumstance of his applying his lips to the wound of the supposed Nubian), “let me first know that his skin was artificially discoloured; and that hint once taken, detection became easy, for his form and person are not to be forgotten. I confidently expect that he will do battle on the morrow.”

“He is full in preparation, and high in hope,” said the Soldan. “I have furnished him with weapons and horse, thinking nobly of him from what I have seen under various disguises.”

“Knows he now,” said Richard, “to whom he lies under obligation?”

“He doth,” replied the Saracen. “I was obliged to confess my person when I unfolded my purpose.”

“And confessed he aught to you?” said the King of England.

“Nothing explicit,” replied the Soldan; “but from much that passed between us, I conceive his love is too highly placed to be happy in its issue.”

“And thou knowest that his daring and insolent passion crossed thine own wishes?” said Richard.

“I might guess so much,” said Saladin; “but his passion had existed ere my wishes had been formed—and, I must now add, is likely to survive them. I cannot, in honour, revenge me for my disappointment on him who had no hand in it. Or, if this high-born dame loved him better than myself, who can say that she did not justice to a knight of her own religion, who is full of nobleness?”

“Yet of too mean lineage to mix with the blood of Plantagenet,” said Richard haughtily.

“Such may be your maxims in Frangistan,” replied the Soldan. “Our poets of the Eastern countries say that a valiant camel-driver is worthy to kiss the lip of a fair Queen, when a