PEEDING over the gray valley, Sir Hugh pictured to himself an English countryside, and the longed-for sight of a Christian stronghold, with lord and liege-men stretching their legs under laden tables by a roaring fire; tales of hunt and foray well told; the chant of a minstrel; a red-cheeked priest dozing over his ale; and white-skinned women, unveiled, giving zest to the night with their laughter or praise. Loneliness is like a fever, rising suddenly in the veins of a wanderer.
Not for a dozen years had he heard the ring of a Frankish voice. His comrades lay, some in graves, some shattered and forgotten.
Wrapped in his wolf-skins, Hugh smiled, beside the silent Georgian. He himself, most like, was forgotten now by all save the Greek emperor, who had hunted him out of the Holy Land. No wife or children or henchmen in Frankland would remember Hugh who had sewn the Cross on his shoulder when he was a lad in his 'teens.
The wooden runners squeaked over hard snow, and a bitter wind whipped the up-fling of the horses' hoofs into his face. The long twilight had ended, and clouds banked low overhead. Shotha Kupri peered about him and grunted when they changed horses at a village. The wind was rising, and the blackness above seemed to press down on the gray ground.
“Snow,” he muttered. “It will not be good, this night.”
Nevertheless he gave command to go forward, and the sledge circled down to the frozen bed of the river. Here they were a little sheltered, but even Arslan who had the eyes of a wild-cat, could not guess where the Road of the Warriors might lie. Dry flakes whirled down from the sky, and the manes of the horses whipped out to the left, while the riders turned up the collars of their burkas to shelter their faces.
Hugh's feet and hands grew chilled, and when he wrapped the furs more closely around him the warmth made him drowsy. His chin dropped on his chest and he slept.
How long, he did not know. When the sledge stopped in front of the lighted windows of a cabin, he roused and saw that the horses were being changed again. Bells jangled and the Georgian couriers shouted, and before he could ask a question they started off into the wind. White domes that might have been haystacks flitted past, and then the veil of snow hid everything.
It seemed to the crusader that he had more room in the seat than before, and that the out-riders were different men. Abruptly he turned and looked behind him. Arslan was no longer perched on the runners. And the horses that galloped after the sledge bore armed warriors. Of the other vehicle and the Mongols there was no sign.
Hugh clapped a heavy hand on his companion's shoulder, and then, with an exclamation of surprize, peered into the face hidden under its fur hood. Even in the storm he was conscious of a faint scent of jasmine, and in a moment more he was certain that the eyes looking up into his belonged to Rusudan, the Gipsy.
The horses' manes and tails still tossed to the left, so they were still going forward—unless the wind had changed. The mounted escort seemed to be Georgians and not Gipsies, and he did not think Shotha Kupri would have quitted the sledge unwilling.
“Where are my men?” he asked bluntly.
“Ai, your hand is heavy.” Rusudan's slender shoulder moved under his fingers and released her. “Are they my men?”
Sudden anger rendered the crusader heedless.
“Stop and wait for them or you will know pain.”
The dark eyes under the hood searched his face, in the murk of the storm.
“Is this the courtesy of a warrior of the Cross? Your men were kept at the last village. Rupen and his abreks have care of them.”
Hugh stood up at once, casting off the fur lap-robes, letting in the drift and the wind, and Rusudan who seemed able to read his thoughts half-formed, mocked him.
“Go and seek in the snow! Neither road nor village will you find. Am I to bring spies into Tphilis? Nay, the agreement was that you alone should come.”
“If harm comes to them”—Hugh thought of Subotai and the Horde that was beginning to weary of eating and sleeping.
“You will be alone. Are you afraid? Fear is no friend in the Khaukesh.”
Hugh swore roundly under his breath, by good Saint George and the Archangel Michael.
“Then sit down,” quoth Rusudan, pulling at the robes. “You are letting in the snow, and my men will think you are afraid.”
Hugh resumed his seat and pulled the robe over the girl who was shivering under the bite of the wind.
“Hath all the Khaukesh,” he asked grimly, “sworn fealty to Rusudan?”
“To Rusudan. Is not every Georgian and Tcherkessian a Gipsy at heart. From the Gate to Tcharnomor they bend their foreheads to my feet.”