s consisting of nought but bone, brawn, and sinew. He
unsheathed his scimitar, a curved and narrow blade, which glittered not
like the swords of the Franks, but was, on the contrary, of a dull blue
colour, marked with ten millions of meandering lines, which showed how
anxiously the metal had been welded by the armourer. Wielding this
weapon, apparently so inefficient when compared to that of Richard, the
Soldan stood resting his weight upon his left foot, which was slightly
advanced; he balanced himself a little as if to steady his aim, then,
stepping at once forward, drew the scimitar across the cushion, applying
the edge so dexterously and with so little apparent effort, that the
cushion seemed rather to fall asunder than to be divided by violence.

"It is a juggler's trick," said De Vaux, darting forward and snatching
up the portion of the cushion which had been cut off, as if to assure
himself of the reality of the feat; "there is gramarye in this."

The Soldan seemed to comprehend him, for he undid the sort of veil which
he had hitherto worn, laid it double along the edge of his sabre,
extended the weapon edgeways in the air, and drawing it suddenly through
the veil, although it hung on the blade entirely loose, severed that
also into two parts, which floated to different sides of the tent,
equally displaying the extreme temper and sharpness of the weapon and
the exquisite dexterity of him who used it.

"Now, in good faith, my brother," said Richard, "thou art even matchless
at the trick of the sword, and right perilous were it to meet thee.
Still, however, I put some faith in a downright English blow, and what
we cannot do by sleight we eke out by strength. Nevertheless, in truth
thou art as expert in inflicting wounds as my sage Hakim in curing them.
I trust I shall see the learned leech; I have much to thank him for, and
had brought some small present."

As he spoke, Saladin exchanged his turban for a Tartar cap. He had no
sooner done so, than De Vaux opened at once his extended mouth and his
large round eyes, and Richard gazed with scarce less astonishment, while
the Soldan spoke in a grave and altered voice: "The sick man, sayeth the
poet, while he is yet infirm, knoweth the physician by his step; but
when he is recovered, he knoweth not even his face when he looks upon
him."

"A miracle!--a miracle!" exclaimed Richard.

"Of Mahound's working, doubtless," said Thomas de Vaux.

"That I should lose my lea