One moment gray, another moment blue, and yet another green. She wore a classic Greek outfit, a white tunic well pleated, with a strap passing over one shoulder, the other bare. So excellent in all her proportions was she that it would have been ridiculous and futile to try to pick out some feature above the others, saying, her nose is very good, or, her eyebrows arch nicely, or, she has a well-shaped bosom, or, her legs are of a comely disposition. All these statements were true, but Helen beggared description and undercut comparison. She was of that perfection, which men glimpse sometimes, murkily, in their dreams. She was in her own way an absolute, an ideal more than a human being, and yet she was human.

And whatever flaws might be found in her served only to enhance her perfection by their very humanity.

Faust looked at her and was sorely tempted. She was a great prize to be won because—completely apart from her inherent desirability—there was the pleasure to be gained by taking her away from all other men, and having all men in the world except the gay ones envious of you. To have Helen would make a man richer than the treasures of a king of kings.

But there was a price to be paid, too. For a man who possessed Helen would also be possessed by her, and could call neither his soul nor his destiny his own. His fame would suffer by comparison to hers. In his own case, no longer would he be thought of as Faust the archetype. He would probably be referred to as Helen's boyfriend. And his own excellences could not fail to dim in comparison with hers. Paris had probably been a good enough man, back there in ancient Troy when he won her from Menelaus. Yet who thought about Paris now?

There were all those reasons, and there was another one: Faust knew that desiring Helen was one thing but, for him actually to take her would be archetypically unsound. He was Faust, a solo act who stood on his own. He was not to be any man's puppet, no, nor woman's, either.

He spoke rapidly, before the sight of her fetal loveliness could undermine him. "No, no," he said, "I'll not have her and I'll not be your man."

Azzie shrugged and smiled. He didn't seem to be entirely surprised at this decision. He must have known what stem stuff Faust was made of, and realizing this, Faust felt a glow of pride in his heart. It's something when even a demon admires your steadfastness!

"All right," Azzie said. "I'll get rid of her. But it was worth a try." He made a series of hand movements, of a dexterity that Faust had to admire: magicians know each other's skills and excellence by the sinuosity of their hand and finger movements. Azzie's was second to none.

The light shimmered for a moment around Helen, who had been waiting rather passively through all this.

But then the shimmering went away. Azzie made passes again. This time there wasn't even a shimmer.

"Well, isn't that weird?" Azzie said. "Usually that Disappearing Spell works just fine. I'll have to look it up again later, when I have time. Tell you what. Helen's a nice girl and she needs a little vacation from Hades, where she currently resides. How about if she sticks around with you a while, and I'll take her back later?"

"Don't you worry about her," Azzie said. "She'll come to no harm. And anyway, I could tell that she wasn't right for you."

"You really think that?" Faust asked.

"Trust me. A demon knows by the glow in his chest when a love match is doomed to destruction. I'll catch up with you later, we'll have another talk. You're sure I can't tempt you with something?"

"No, but thanks for trying."

"Right, then. I must be off."

"Wait!" Faust said. "Could you supply me with a few ingredients that I need for my Traveling Spell?

Otherwise Helen and I might be stuck on this mountaintop for quite some time."

"Good thing you mentioned it," Azzie said. And, opening the pouch that all demons carry with them, but which, because of witchcraft, does not make a bulge in their clothing, Azzie removed a variety of herbs, simples, nostrums, purified metals, recondite poisons and the like, and gave these to Faust.

"Thank you," Faust said. "With these at my disposal I'll work my own destiny. Your offer was kind, Azzie, but I can take care of this matter of the impostor by myself."

"Farewell, then!" Azzie cried.

"Farewell," Faust said.

They both struck a pose, right arms upraised in the air, palms outward, thumbs folded in—the magician's gesture—then Azzie vanished in a flash and Faust, a moment later, accompanied by Helen, vanished in one also.

CHAPTER 7

Marguerite couldn't believe it. She had always heard that magicians were a fickle lot, but this, in the old German expression, really took the apple kuchen. She had gone from a tavern in Cracow to a cell in Constantinople, and she didn't even know what she'd been arrested for. And here she was, abandoned by Faust and probably in a lot of trouble. She paced up and down the cell, then cowered back as she heard the sound of heavy footsteps marching down the passageway. The footsteps stopped, the door to the next cell clanged open.

Marguerite waited, listening. There was a brief pause. Then the steps started up again. They stopped in front of her cell. She heard the sound of a key rattling in the crude lock. Then the lock turned. She cowered as the door to her cell swung open.

Then Mack, for such it was, said, "Who are you?"

"I am Marguerite," the girl said. "And you?"

"Dr. Johann Faust, at your service."

Marguerite blinked twice, and it was on her mind to say that he couldn't be Faust because the real Faust had just abandoned her to go off joyriding with a demon. But a moment's reflection convinced her that this line of talk might not be a good idea, since this fellow presumably had rescue in mind, and might not care to be contradicted so vehemently at the very beginning of their relationship. Let him be Faust, or Schmaust, or Gnaust, or whatever he pleased, so long as he got her out of here.

"What are you doing here?" Mack asked.

"That's a long story," Marguerite said. "I was with this other fellow, and, well, he sort of went off and left me here. And you?"

Mack had come to the prison cell in pursuit of Henry Dandolo, hoping to get from him the icon of St.

Basil, because this, it seemed to him, was very much what he needed to bring this situation to a successful conclusion. When he reached the first cell he saw that Dandolo, along with blind old Isaac, had left. He was about to leave himself, when some presentiment made him look into the next cell. It was strange: it was not his usual way, to look into cells. But this time it had seemed quite urgent that he do so. And so he had done it. But how to tell all this to Marguerite?

"Mine's a long story, too," he told her. "Do you want to get out of here?"

"Does a pig like to wallow?" Marguerite said, using an old expression which was common in the part of Germany where she had been a goosegirl.

"Come, then," Mack said. "Stick with me. I have to find somebody."

They left the dungeon and went out into the camp. It was a scene of confusion and riot. A thousand torches flared, illuminating people scurrying back and forth. Trumpets were blasting, and most people were moving in the direction of the city walls. It seemed that an attack was in progress.

Mack and Marguerite made their way through the crowd, walking in the direction most of the people were going. Everybody was hurrying toward the walls of Constantinople, and it seemed there was fighting going on there. Bloodied men were being helped back from the fray, many of them stuck with Byzantine arrows, which could be distinguished from others by the red and green hexagonal patterns painted on their shafts, and by their feathers, which were of Muscovy duck rather than English goose.