an--"

A sudden fear came over him. There was no time for this! If he were
caught now, with the dead Venetian, Rachel would surely be executed, and
he along with her.

He hoisted the box to the level of his hipbone, feeling as if his spine
would snap. Rachel and Friar Mathieu put their hands under it, easing
the load a little. Panting, the three of them wrestled the chest out of
the tent, and with one heart-bursting effort Lorenzo heaved it up into
the rear of the cart.

He glanced about him and saw that they were still not being watched.

He picked up the dead archer's crossbow and quiver of arrows and set
them beside the driver's seat at the front of the cart, although he
hoped he would not have to fight his way out of this place.

Bustling Rachel and Friar Mathieu into the cart, he had them hide under
the blankets, in case any of the guards around Charles's camp should
want to look inside.

It seemed to him that he held his breath all the way from the Tartars'
tent to the edge of the French camp. But the elderly guard he had spoken
to barely glanced at him as he drove by with a wave.

The battle seemed unchanged as his cart creaked and rattled along the
narrow dirt track leading through the hills west of the valley. Save
that more dead littered the rolling brown landscape. Charles still stood
on his mound, not deigning to get into the fight himself.

Horsemen and foot soldiers struggled in crowds the length of the valley.
The Tartars, whom he had come to kill, must be fighting down there
somewhere. With luck they would die, either on the battlefield or later.

He kept his eyes moving, watching everything. Arrows or stragglers from
the battle might get the three of them. They would not be safe until
they reached Manfred's camp. If then.

"Oh, Lorenzo, I'm so happy!" Crying, Rachel threw her arms around his
neck.

Embarrassed, he said gruffly, "Easy, child. I have to see what is going
on down there." He gently pulled her arms loose.

The track had climbed high enough to give him a view of the south end of
the valley. With a glow of pleasure he saw that Daoud had kept the Sons
of the Falcon intact. There was their green banner with its white
inscription. There were their turbans, red dots forming a line across
the valley.

A warm feeling swept over him as he made out Daoud's figure in the
center of the line. Never had he met a man he admired more, not even
Manfred. He caught himself praying that Daoud wo