the brethren with whom he was brought up, all of them dead now
save one; and of his sisters, whom he had cherished. Most of all
did he think of her, Zobeide, who had been stolen away by the
knight whom she loved even to the loss of her own soul--yes, by
the English friend of his youth, his father's prisoner, Sir
Andrew D'Arcy, who, led astray by passion, had done him and his
house this grievous wrong. He had sworn, he remembered, that he
would bring her back even from England, and already had planned
to kill her husband and capture her when he learned her death.
She had left a child, or so his spies told him, who, if she still
lived, must be a woman now--his own niece, though half of noble
English blood.

Then his mind wandered from this old, half-forgotten story to the
woe and blood in which his days were set, and to the last great
struggle between the followers of the prophets Jesus and Mahomet,
that Jihad [Holy War] for which he made ready--and he sighed. For
he was a merciful man, who loved not slaughter, although his
fierce faith drove him from war to war.

Salah-ed-din slept and dreamed of peace. In his dream a maiden
stood before him. Presently, when she lifted her veil, he saw
that she was beautiful, with features like his own, but fairer,
and knew her surely for the daughter of his sister who had fled
with the English knight. Now he wondered why she visited him
thus, and in his vision prayed Allah to make the matter clear.
Then of a sudden he saw this same woman standing before him on a
Syrian plain, and on either side of her a countless host of
Saracens and Franks, of whom thousands and tens of thousands were
appointed to death. Lo! he, Salah-ed-din, charged at the head of