"Three adventurers," said the voice that had sworn by the very God. It was an elderly voice but full of vigor. "Three homeless travelers pledged to right wrongs and defeat hell's minions wherever they may be found." "Thanks to the Holy Sepulcher," groaned the dying one. "Perhaps all may be well." The man holding him up jerked with surprise. "Here," he said, with a kind of tender roughness, "are you a Crusader, man? Are you a Frank?" "English," said he. "Sir Malcolm du Findley." He made a hideous rattling noise but from somewhere deep in his soul the power came to make him go on. "El Iskandariya. Big ship. Full of rats." "What's he burbling about?" asked the deep voice of Godwin. "Poor devil's clean out of his head. Rats? Did rats do this to him?" "Rats are full of plague," said Sir Malcolm faintly. "Yes, yes," said the girl. "Ship full of rats, rats full of plague. Go on." "Can a rat have the plague?" asked Godwin. "Well, can it?" asked the girl. "Mihrjan, answer me." A fourth voice, one like muted thunder over distant dunes, said, "Assuredly, O Mistress of My Life, though 'tis not known generally by men in this time." "He knows it, evidently," said the girl. "Do go on, Sir Malcolm. What about these rats?" "Ship at El Iskandariya. Going to England, spread plague, decimate whole country. No more Crusades. Saracen plot." "Now by God and by God, no Saracen stoops that low!" shouted the elderly man. "Yes. Whole crew of them. Leader--" "Yes, man; the leader?" urged Godwin. "Mufaddal al Mamun. Big black-faced swine. His gang can do--anything. Say they can wipe out nine-tenths of England with plague rats, then France, Germany. No more Crusades." He widened his bloody-veined eyes and retching, said, "Tell Richard! Get word to Richard! Got to sink that ship, slay Mufaddal al Mamun! Slay his sorcerers! Promise!" "We promise," said Godwin. "Decimate England, eh? Plague-infested rats, ha? My halidom! I think not!" Sir Malcolm, with a grimace that might have been a grin, collapsed in upon himself and died, as peacefully as a man can when he has come seventy miles on foot, over baking sand beneath a searing sun of brass, with a third of his skin flayed off. CHAPTER II Godwin stood up. "Where's El Iskandariya?" he asked. El Sareuk rubbed his beard with one slim brown hand. "You call it Alexandria. About twenty-five leagues west it lies, my great-thewed friend, on the banks of the Mediterranean."