A tedious ride brought the five knights nigh Shunem, the City of Elijah. “We’ll find no prophet’s chamber here for such as we,” remarked Sir Charleroy. “Perhaps,” said a comrade, “we may by force or cajoling find a breakfast; a cake or cruse of oil.” “Anyhow,” replied the chief, “we must try for a little food. We can neither fight nor flee with gaunt hunger on our flanks. Who knows, after all, but that we may happen on a humane being in these parts.” “Well, good captain, if we should find a Shulamite, black, but comely, she might be as loving to thee as that one of old was to Solomon, although——” The sentence was broken off by the interrupting command of Sir Charleroy, “Men, quick to cover; to the lemon-tree grove on the right!” A glance back revealed a host of armed men behind the knights. “All saints defend!” cried the Templar, as the little band wheeled toward the refuge. The tale of the battle to the death that ensued, is quickly told. Sir Charleroy, though he had fought with reckless bravery, as one hotly pursuing death, alone survived. A bludgeon blow felled him; when he recovered consciousness, he beheld standing by his side a gorgeously bedecked Moslem. The clangor of the conflict was over; the blood in which he weltered, and the vicious eyes that watched him, were all that reminded the knight of what had recently transpired. Presently the latter addressed the one that stood guard: “Why is the infidel so tardy in finishing his work?” “Is the Crusader in a hurry to reach night?” sententiously replied the man of gorgeous trappings. “He would like to stay long enough to execute a murderer—the chief of thy horde.” “My horde? Thou knowest me?” “Oh, yes, ‘Azrael, Angel of Death,’ thy minions call thee; but I defy thee as I loathe thee.” The chief’s brow darkened; his sword rose in air, and he exclaimed: “Hercules was healed of a serpent bite, ages ago, at Acre; Islamism in the same place recently; I must finish the hydra by cutting off thy hissing head, Christian.” Sir Charleroy steadily met his captor’s gaze, eye to eye, and was silent. The chief paused; then lowering his sword, toyed its point against the cross on the prostrate man’s breast. “Bitter tongue, thou dost worship a death sign; dost thou so love death?” “Death befriends those who wear that sign in truth; this is my comfort standing now at the rim of earth’s last night.” “Thy bright red blood and unwrinkled brow bespeak youth, the power to enjoy life. Youth and such power is ever a prayer for more time; thou liest to thyself and me by professing to seek thy end.” “How wonderful! The ‘Angel of Death’ is a soul-reader as well as a murderer!” bitterly rejoined Sir Charleroy. “Well, then, refute me! Here’s thy greasy, blood-stained sword; now go, by thine own hands, if thou darest, to judgment.” “Trusting God, I may defy thee; yet not hurry Him!” “I like the Christian’s metal. I might let him live.”