t that the bearded man, with the wounds of
crucifixion in his hands, was God. And he had believed it once, too.

No, God was One. He could not be a Father who reigned in heaven and a
Son who came down to earth. God was glorious and all-powerful; He could
not be crucified. God was the Creator; He could not be part of His
creation.

And yet--the cold hand still lay upon his shoulder. A gentle hand, but
it frightened him.

All around Daoud the infidels were throwing themselves on their knees,
even on their faces, in the road before the advancing banner. A man in a
black robe was walking before the banner bearer. Despite his long gray
beard there was something about his staring eyes and wide, downturned
mouth that reminded Daoud of a fish.

The bearded priest, Father Kyril, was holding up by its corners a white
square of linen. That, thought Daoud, must be the altar cloth on which
the drops of blood had fallen from the wafer of bread. As he walked he
slowly, solemnly, turned from side to side to allow people on both sides
of the road to see the cloth.

"_Kneel_, David, for God's sake!" Lorenzo ground out beside him.

His curiosity had made him forget himself. He dropped to his knees,
feeling dry grass prick his skin through his silk hose. Lorenzo knelt
beside him, gripping the dog's collar. The sick and crippled people
lying beside the road were wailing and holding up their arms in
supplication.

Again Daoud asked God's forgiveness for his seeming idolatry.

Father Kyril and the altar cloth were only a dozen paces away, and now
Daoud could see the brown bloodstains on the white cloth. Amazingly they
appeared to form the profile of a bearded man.

As a cold wind against his spine, he felt his long-buried fear of the
wrath of the Christian God.

The big hound, right beside him, let out a thunderous bark. Daoud
started with surprise. His heart pounded in his chest.

Scipio barked and barked, so loudly Daoud put his hands over his ears.
Father Kyril took a step backward. People who had been venerating the
bloodstained cloth turned with angry shouts. The hands of the
men-at-arms escorting Father Kyril twitched, groping for the weapons
they were not carrying.

"Scipio!" Lorenzo gave the hound a sharp slap on the side of the head.
The dog kept up its barking. Father Kyril had stopped walking and looked
frightened. He clutched the stained cloth to his breast. At a word from
him, Daoud thought, the crowd would tear to