Kahira that will be the wonder of the
world. But when were you in Paris?"

"Four years ago, on a mission for King Manfred."

_Four years ago I was battling Tartars in Palestine._

As they passed the open front doors of the cathedral, Daoud looked up
the steps. He saw the bright yellow light of massed candles and heard a
chorus of male voices raised in song. The voices seemed thin and high,
as if reaching up into the night sky. He had heard such singing
before--a long time before. He felt a catch in his throat.

"Why are the priests singing so late at night?"

"Those are the priests of the cathedral chapter. It is the beginning of
day for them. They are chanting lauds, the dawn prayer of the Church."

Listening to the voices, Daoud felt hot tears running down his face.

Lorenzo glanced at him and chuckled. "I see you are not so impervious to
the attractions of Christianity."

Daoud was embarrassed, but he could not stop the flow of tears. "It is
the wine."

He was remembering high mass in the chapel of the castle, with his
father's hand on his shoulder as they knelt and the chief priest in
dazzling white and gold cope raised the white wafer toward heaven. His
father whispered, "Jesus is come down among us," and then his strong
tenor voice joined in "Veni Creator Spiritus."

_I weep now for my father because I had no chance to weep for him when
he was killed._

"Suppose he is in some Christian heaven looking down at me. What would
he think?"

Daoud started at the sound of his own words.

_I must be drunk. I would never speak so in front of Lorenzo--or
anyone--otherwise._

"Who is looking down at you?" Lorenzo asked. His shoulders were hard and
broad under Daoud's arm, and he seemed to bear Daoud's weight without
the least difficulty. They were past the cathedral now, following a
straight, fairly wide street that gently sloped downward. Broken clouds
drifted away from the half moon. Like a watchman's lantern it hung over
the center of the street, between the overhanging second stories of the
houses.

"My father," said Daoud, and a sob bubbled up in his throat as he softly
spoke the word, albeit in the unfamiliar tongue of Italy. "How he must
hate me and curse me for fighting for Islam."

Lorenzo halted his stride and lifted his head. Then he started walking
again. He raised his hand and gripped the wrist Daoud was resting on his
shoulder.

In a very low voice he said, "Someone is following us."

No