Adventure Magazine Cover — page 19: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

The Witch of Aleppo parried a lightning lunge at his side. Once more he was aware of the tiny pin point of fire, scraping his skin through the cloth. Instead of making him wilder, this touch steadied the Cossack. His iron wrist served him well now, and in a dozen tries, the rapier failed to get home upon him. Sir Michael tried intricate feints—complicated passes that got the other’s blade well to one side—but ever as he thrust, the light simitar warded in time. It was, to him, an exhibition of incredible quickness of hand and eye, for the Cossack was not familiar with such tricks of the sword, such rogueries of the blade. ** *Swounds!”’ cried Sir Michael, whole- heartedly. Barely in time, with numbed wrist, he had freed his blade from a twist of the simitar that would otherwise have sent it flying through the air. If the rapier had been a saber it would have been lost to him. “Good lad,’ he panted, with a smile of acknowledgment. Now the Cossack did not understand the words, but Sir Michael’s smile was eloquent, and the glare passed from the eyes of the tall warrior, who sheathed his saber and sprang forward to pull his adversary to his chest and kiss him on both cheeks. The Cossacks, pleased with the sword-play, rose in. their stirrups and shouted and the bout was at an end. Yet the result was still a matter of un- certainty. Balaban muttered that the blade of the Frank was bewitched, and Demid, who was no believer in black magic, shook his head. ‘“‘Nay, the play was fair. Yonder Frank is my match. Twice he touched me and I marked him not. What man can he be?” “No true man,” put in Ayub, frowning. ‘“‘He has curls like a Polish wench, and he is not big enough to amount to anything. Ho, dragoman, what has your master to say for himself?’ The Circassian pondered, his black eyes roving. Drawing closer to the Cossacks he said in a low voice: ‘“‘The lord, my master, is high in favor at the Imperial City. He has called you dogs, and bade me order you to stand aside and beat to him with the forehead* as he passes along the road.”’ Demid stopped in his tracks, surprized. *To make the salaam, in oriental fashion. 13 Ayub, enraged, began to snort and clutch at the hilt of his broadsword. An expres- sion of sullen triumph crossed the olive face of the Circassian, as Ayub controlled himself enough to demand a sight of their papers. He took the strip of folded parchment that Giorgos drew from his girdle, glanced at the seal and the Turkish writing, and sniffed. ‘As I live, though this scroll is a riddle to Christian eyes, the Sultan Mustapha has set his mark at the bottom. At least his seal is here.” Protesting volubly that the letter was a seguro—a safe conduct—Giorgos managed to whisper to Sir Michael, who was puzzled by the change in the temper of the Cossacks, that it was well the dogs could not read. Demid, who had been studying the open face of the traveler, took the parchment from Ayub and glanced at it, then scanned it a second time, thoughtfully. ‘‘A safe conduct to Satan,” growled the big Cossack. ‘This bird has strange plum- age, and why is he here unless to do evil to Christians, if he bears a letter from the Turke”’ Demid folded up the missive again, his face inscrutable.. Even Giorgos could not be sure if he had read the safe conduct or not. ‘‘Time to break our fast,’’ he observed, glancing at the sky. ‘Down from your ponies, kunaks. Start a fire and boil millet and mutton—chop a hole in the ice, Ayub. The detachment is in your hand until I come back.” , Taking Sir Michael by the arm, and mo- tioning for Giorgos to remain at the camp, Demid led the traveler aside to some rocks where he sat down and proceeded deliberate- ly to light his clay pipe. Placing the black Turkish tobacco in the bowl, he laid a pinch of tinder on it and struck steel against flint until he ignited the tinder. ‘“This paper,” he said abruptly in Turkish, “is sealed with wax, yet its true seal is blood. It is your death warrant.” Demid had full mastery of that tongue, and had seen enough to suspect Sir Michael knew more than a little of it, which proved to be the case. ‘““Marash! ‘That is strange; what does the paper say? I can not read it.” “First,” said Demid gravely, “tell me who you are, and your business here.” oO COmiclbook C©