Free Sword Woman and Other Historical Adventures by Robert E. Howard Page A

– strength combined with endurance. Under his white kafiyeh his brown face showed smooth shaven, and he was lighter in complection than the Turk, the darkness of his features being more of the sun than of nature. His grey eyes in repose were cold as chilled steel, but even so there smoldered in them a hint of stormy fires.
    He gulped his wine and smacked his lips in appreciation, and the Turk grinned and refilled his goblet.
    “How fare the Faithful in Spain, brother?”
    “Badly enough, since the Vizir Mozaffar ibn Al Mansur died,” answered the Moor. “The Caliph Hischam is a weakling. He can not curb his nobles, each of whom would set up an independent state. The land groans under civil war, and yearly the Christian kingdoms wax mightier. A strong hand could yet save Andalusia; but in all Spain there is no such strong hand.”
    “In Egypt such a hand might be found,” remarked the Turk. “Here are many powerful emirs who love brave men. In the ranks of the Memluks there is always a place for a saber like yours.”
    “I am neither Turk nor slave,” grunted Yusuf.
    “No!” Al Afdhal’s voice was soft; the hint of a smile touched his thin lips. “Do not fear; I am in your debt, and I can keep a secret.”
    “What do you mean?” The Moor’s hawk-like head came up with a jerk. His grey eyes began to smolder. His sinewy hand sought his hilt.
    “I heard you cry out in the stress of the fight as you smote the black sworder,” said Al Afdhal. “You roared ‘ Santiago! ’ So shout the Caphars of Spain in battle. You are no Moor; you are a Christian!”
    The other was on his feet in an instant, saber drawn. But Al Afdhal had not stirred; he reclined at ease on the cushions, sipping his wine.
    “Fear not,” he repeated. “I have said that I would keep your secret. I owe you my life. A man like you could never be a spy; you are too quick to anger, too open in your wrath. There can be but one reason why you come among the Moslems – to avenge yourself upon a private enemy.”
    The Christian stood motionless for a moment, feet braced as if for an attack, the sleeve of his khalat falling back to reveal the ridged muscles of his thick brown arm. He scowled uncertainly, and standing thus, looked much less like a Moslem than he had previously looked.
    There was an instant of breathless tension, then with a shrug of his brawny shoulders, the false Moor reseated himself, though with his saber across his knees.
    “Very well,” he said candidly, tearing off a great bunch of grapes with a bronzed hand and cramming them into his mouth. He spoke between mastication. “I am Diego de Guzman, of Castile. I seek an enemy in Egypt.”
    “Whom?” inquired Al Afdhal with interest.
    “A Berber named Zahir el Ghazi, may the dogs gnaw his bones!”
    The Turk started.
    “By Allah, you aim at a lofty target! Know you that this man is now an emir of Egypt, and general of all the Berber troops of the Fatimid caliphs?”
    “By Saint Pedro,” answered the Spaniard, “it matters as little as if he were a street-sweeper.”
    “Your blood-feud has led you far,” commented Al Afdhal.
    “The Berbers of Malaga revolted against their Arab governor,” said de Guzman abruptly. “They asked aid of Castile. Five hundred knights marched to their assistance. Before we could reach Malaga, this accursed Zahir el Ghazi had betrayed his companions into the hands of the caliph. Then he betrayed us, who were marching to their aid. Ignorant of all that had passed, we fell into a trap laid by the Moors. Only I escaped with my life. Three brothers and an uncle fell beside me on that day. I was cast into a Moorish prison, and a year passed before my people were able to raise enough gold to ransom me.
    “When I was free again, I learned that Zahir had fled from Spain, for fear of his own people. But my sword was needed in Castile. It was another year before I could take the road of vengeance. And for a year I have sought through the Moslem