he said, "Hold your arrow!" hoping the man would
understand his tone. As he spoke, he firmly grasped the arrow near its
head and pushed it aside. His heart thudded, and he could almost feel
that steel tip stabbing into his chest. And how bare was his back to the
crossbow quarrels!

The Armenian took a step to the side and let Simon pass. Simon let out a
deep breath of relief. As he stepped forward, the soles of his boots
slid a little. The floor, he realized, must be slippery with spilled
wine.

Now he was facing the man who was murdering Sordello. A vagrant thought
struck Simon: _I do not like Sordello. I would not mind if the Armenian
killed him. Why risk my life for him?_

_Because a good seigneur is loyal to his men_, the answer came at once.

He spoke commandingly but softly. "Stop. This is my man and you must not
kill him. Let him go." He put his hand firmly on the forearm of the
Armenian, who was a good deal shorter than he was. The man's dark brows
drew together in a puzzled frown. He was studying Simon's face. Simon
could feel a faint tremor in the muscles under his hand.

Any man would be frightened at a moment like this, no matter how brave,
how hardened, Simon thought. But he saw that the Armenian's face was
unlined, his eyes clear. His black mustache was small and fine.

_He must be about my age. Maybe even younger._

Simon felt a warmth toward the young Armenian, and hoped he could win
him over. But how could such a pleasant-looking fellow bring himself to
strangle a man with a bowstring? Perhaps Sordello had done something
truly evil.

"Come now," Simon said, giving the young man's arm a gentle shake. "Do
let him go." He essayed a smile, hoping it would look friendly.

The Armenian let out a deep sigh and closed his eyes. Then he released
his grip on the bow. He slapped it with one hand to make it twirl. Simon
heard a faint choking sound from Sordello, and then the Italian slid to
the stone floor.

A woman, her henna-dyed hair gleaming red-gold in the candlelight,
rushed to the young Armenian and held his arm, talking soothingly in
Italian. He stiffened at first, then smiled at her.

"Thank you," said Simon to the Armenian, shaky with relief.

He smiled and patted the dark man's free arm, feeling foolish about his
simple words of gratitude. If only Friar Mathieu would get here so that
he could talk to these men from the East.

A cool feeling of relief bathed Simon. So far all had gone amaz