had crawled away, mortally injured, doubtless to bleed to death somewhere by the deserted river bank.
And the princess fought on, frightened, in despair, but resolved with all the stubbornness of the Gengizkhani blood to die rather than submit, the point of her sword dancing in ever weakening circles, while, back in the palace, the old nurse raised lean arms to heaven.
“By Allah and by Allah!” the nurse exclaimed. “The little princess has more sense than I thought! Enough sense, at least, to have taken along the Luck of the Gengizkhani—and if Al Nakia reaches there in time, both ancient blades will sing the song of blood together. Wooing indeed! Mating indeed! As swords and men and women should mate—in battle! Perhaps”—she whispered—“perhaps it is not too late …”
And she sank on her knees, facing Mecca, and cried as if her heart would break, and prayed, fervently:
“Against the night when it overtaketh me, and against the black lust of the wicked and the bad, I betake me for refuge to Allah, the Lord of Daybreak! O Allah, speed Thou Al Nakia's horse! O Allah, listen Thou to the prayer of this foolish old woman! O Allah, do Thou protect and save the little princess who is to me like the light of a friendly house in the screaming night of storms—who is the cradle of my soul—who is the inner jewel in the shrine of my withered heart!”
Thus the prayer on Ayesha Zemzem's lips; and a prayer, too, was in the heart of Hector Wade as he
