Chapter 9

It was noon before Voldi resumed his journey. Fara would unquestionably have ridden through Lachish, and since it was clear that she had not tarried in Hebron, it was almost certain that she must have stopped here.

He had had no opportunity to speak to the innkeeper on this subject, for Mencius had been standing by, but this morning Voldi pressed his inquiries.

The innkeeper wanted to be obliging, though he professed to have no knowledge of the young Arabian who had passed this way. Certainly he had not stopped for accommodation at his house. It was possible, of course, he admitted, that the young man might have paused to ask questions at a private home and had been offered lodging for the night. That happened occasionally. He even volunteered to accompany his generous guest on a tour of the homes where travellers had been welcomed. But no helpful information was arrived at, though much valuable time was consumed. Voldi’s heart was heavy as he gave up the quest in Lachish and rode on.

It was a monotonous journey. A mile west he came upon evidences of the recent encampment of Pincus’ caravan. Three miles farther on he came to the tumbledown village of Melissa, where, without any hope at all, he stopped to ask the usual questions, to which the replies were bucolic stares, scowls, and a spitting on the ground.

The sun was setting when a stone guide-post advised him that Gaza was still eight miles distant. Twilight came on rapidly. A quarter moon helped a little, but it would be a long way to Gaza. And Voldi had no relish for arriving in the night, seeing you could easily have your throat cut there in the daytime.

As he plodded along in the thickening gloom, he saw—on the highway some two hundred yards ahead—a group of dim figures engaged in combat. There was an unmistakable sound of clashing swords, together with brief barks of warning and savage encouragements.

For an instant Voldi was undecided whether to ride into this mêlée, which might turn out to be a fight between rival groups of ruffians. He drew the gelding to a stop. Now he saw a white horse being tugged off the highway, and the reason for the commotion was clear. Spurring Darik to a gallop, he found himself within a few yards of a desperate fight in which Mencius was valiantly but hopelessly defending himself against three!

Flinging himself out of the saddle, he rushed into the fray. One of the stalwart robbers turned to meet him with a broadsword raised high. Voldi did not wait for it to descend on him, but leaped for it. Gripping the man’s wrist with his left hand, he held the sword suspended for the instant required to drive his dagger deep into the shoulder of the sword-arm. With a scream of pain and rage, the bandit tried to strike. This time the dagger caught him in the left breast. It had found its mark. As the body sagged, Voldi flung it aside and dashed on into the battle which Mencius was plainly losing; for one of his two remaining assailants had moved to the rear of him and was preparing to strike.

‘Behind you, Mencius!’ he shouted. ‘I’ll take this fellow!’