ecision to go to Ugolini had led to this
disaster. Another stain on the house of Gobignon.

He put his hands to his face. "If only I had stayed with them this
morning."

Mathieu patted his arm. "Do not reproach yourself. No one will blame
you. It would probably have happened just the same even if you were
there."

Simon felt the old friar's words like a blow in the face. What shame, to
be thought so useless that even his presence would not have saved the
Tartars. But, he told himself, turning the knife in his own guts, it was
true. Anyone stupid enough to let something like this happen _would_
surely be useless in a moment of danger.

"Did you not know how dangerous these hills could be?" he asked.

"They were determined on a long ride," said Friar Mathieu. "Tartars are
used to vast distances and great spaces. You cannot imagine how
miserable they were feeling, cooped up in a hill town surrounded by a
wall on top of a rock. I felt sorry for them. In fact, I even feared for
their health."

Simon was indignant. "Feared for their health! The devil you say! Now
look at them."

Friar Mathieu squeezed Simon's arm. "Do not mention the devil. He may
come when you call. As for them"--he waved a hand at the two inert
forms in the cart--"this is embarrassing, to be sure, but we need not
blame ourselves."

"Embarrassing? Embarrassing! Is that all you call it?"

One of the bodies on the straw moved. As Simon stared, it lurched to its
knees. He heard a few slurred words in the guttural speech of the
Tartars. The figure crawled on hands and knees to the side of the cart,
lifted its head, and vomited loudly and copiously.

"They are not dead!" Simon cried.

"Dead drunk," said Friar Mathieu.

Relief was so sudden and stunning that for a moment Simon could not
breathe. He caught his breath and gasped. The gasp was followed by a
roar of laughter. Simon stood, his head thrown back, helpless with
laughter. He pressed his hands against his aching stomach.

Friar Mathieu had gone to attend the sick Tartar. He wiped the man's
face with the sleeve of his robe, went to the stream and washed the
sleeve, then came back and pressed the wet wool to the Tartar's brow.

"Can you not stop laughing?" he said on his second trip to the stream.
"The Armenians do not like you laughing at their masters."

"Dead drunk!" Simon shouted, and went into another spasm of laughter.

* * * * *

It started innocentl