The merry song ceased; the conversation dropped; and in the awful
stillness the senses of each man confirmed the report of the
sentinel.
"They may be friends," said the young knight.
"Friends are scarce in the desert," said an aged man-at-arms, the
Nestor of the expedition; "permit us to arm, my lord."
The word was given, and each man-at-arms hastened to his steed; the
archers--footmen--adjusted their bows, when a troop of wild
horsemen, approaching with the speed of the wind, became visible.
They appeared to number a hundred men, so far as they could be
discerned and their force estimated amidst the dust which they
created, and their ever-changing evolutions. Anon grim forms and
wild faces appeared from the cloud; spears glanced in every
direction--now whirled around their heads, now thrown and caught
with the dexterity of jugglers.
They seemed to manage their horses less by the bridle than by the
inflections of their bodies, so that they could spare, at need,
both hands for combat--the one to hold the bucklers of rhinoceros
skin or crocodile hide, the other to wield spear or scimitar.
Turbans surrounded their heads, and light garments their bodies;
but defensive armour had they none.
"Let them come on," said the young knight; "we would not give way,
though the desert yielded twenty times such scum.
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